


My life I owe to you

by Bloodymoonwolf



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Domination, Exhibitionism, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Gags, Hand Jobs, Impact Play, Light BDSM, M/M, Nipple Licking, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Prostate Massage, Rimming, Romance, Safewords, Semi-Public Sex, Slow Burn, Spit Kink, Submission, The Witcher 2: Assassins of Kings, Things in Flotsam turn out a little bit different, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2019-06-22 09:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 67,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15578604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodymoonwolf/pseuds/Bloodymoonwolf
Summary: Ignoring the pull of the arrow, Geralt pushed himself forward, right into Iorveth, who quickly raised an arm before his men could shoot. "I'm protecting my friends. If I don’t cooperate, Loredo will hang them with a smile on his ugly face.""You could protect them by killing the swine." Iorveth laid a hand on Geralt's shoulder, pressing his fingers deeply into the flesh there. "You could side with us, Gwynbleidd."______________________Disclaimer: This fanfiction spans the entirety of Witcher 2 and contains spoilers for Witcher 3 and Witcher 3 - Blood and Wine. Please proceed at your own risk. Remember that this fanfiction will make much more sense if you understand the plot of the games behind it. As always, characters do not belong to me, I do not make money with this story, etc.Content-Warning: As you can tell by the tags, there will be a few very explicit scenes in this fanfiction (sex and violence). If you would like to read the story, but are wary of some of the tags, please don't hesitate to contact me; I'll gladly give you a guide on which tags apply to what chapter and where to stop reading if you want to avoid a specific one.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt gets lost in the forest and stumbles upon a very familiar elf.

Geralt lit the Grapeshot bomb, let it fall into the nest and stood up from his low squat. Rolling his aching shoulders, he waited until the bomb detonated with a satisfying, ear-splitting _bang_. Maybe this time, the Nekkers would learn their lesson and _stay_ dead. It was getting tiresome to kill the small necrophages whenever he set foot into the deeper brushes.

With a last glance to the destroyed nest, Geralt sheathed his silver sword and made his way back to Flotsam, stepping lightly over roots and past Cedric’s traps. He had drunk a _Swallow_ earlier and the potion made him feel alert, painfully so. The sun felt too bright for his slit pupils and the toxin burned in his belly, but it was better to be prepared than dead. Geralt knew better than to underestimate his opponents. Even he had bad days sometimes and once you were surrounded by a dozen monsters that tried to rip your throat out, you were thankful for every advantage.

The forest smelled of wet earth and a dozen different herbs. And something else.

Leather and smoke.

The scent was enough to make Geralt pause. There shouldn’t be any villagers this deep in the forest. Had he taken a wrong turn somewhere and was now heading south towards Scoia’tael territory? Iorveth’s elfs kept to their side of the forest mostly, only once had he run into a patrol and quickly fled. He had fought alongside their cause back in Wyzima and he'd sooner not kill them if he didn’t have to. The old blood was thin. But if he had gotten too close to their hideout, things could turn ugly.

He had no sooner thought this than he heard the feather light tapper of feet on wood. Archers. He drew his sword, rolling to the side and pressing against a tree.

“I mean no harm!” he called out into the forest. Sweat was dripping down his brow, the sun beating down through a hole in the canopy.

An arrow whirred past his head, piercing through the shoulder fabric of his armor and effectively pinning him to the tree. Leaves rustled above him. He looked up.

Iorveth sat hunched on a giant branch and regarded Geralt with a curious look. “What have we here?” he drawled, while two archers appeared next to him, bows trained at Geralt’s heart. The Witcher knew he could free himself, but not without injury. One could say many things about the Scoia’tael, call them bandits or terrorists or any other derogatory term, but at the end of the day, they were the best archers to ever walk the earth. He did not like his chances.

“Iorveth” he answered, taking in the proud statue of the Scoia’tael leader. The right eye hidden by a red piece of cloth, a bow bigger than some men strapped across his back. It had been days since Roche, Triss and he had landed in Flotsam and yet this was the first time he spotted the elf. Sometimes, Geralt could have sworn he heard the melody of his flute, only to stand still for minutes on end and hear nothing. It had to be the memory of his music from their first meeting. For some reason, he couldn't seem to get the sound out of his head, nor the way Iorveth's fingers danced over the slender instrument. “I don’t wish to fight. Let me leave, and I will forget I saw you.”

“How generous of you, Gwynbleidd.” Iorveth jumped from the tree, landing lightly in the soft moss. “Did you change your mind about me since last we met?”

Geralt laughed. “Hardly. Just thought you might appreciate the gesture. You cannot hold me, and you know it.”

“I think you underestimate my elfs, Witcher. But I agree, it would turn to bloodshed before you died.”

“I wouldn’t die.”

Iorveth smiled at him, cold and amused. “Why are you here? To meddle in politics? I never took you for the type.”

“There is a bounty on my head.” Geralt softly pulled against the arrow, loosening it a bit in the process. Immediately, the bowstrings pulled tighter and he stopped. “I need to clear my name. What about you? Since when do the Scoia’tael collude with Witchers and kingkillers?”

“I think you know.”

“I don’t think I do.”

“A shame.”

“Maybe we can trade information?” Geralt tried again. Iorveth cocked his head, stepping a bit closer.

“What information could you possibly possess that I might be interested in?”

“Loredo wants you dead.”

“Everybody outside the forest wants me dead. That’s hardly news.”

“He asked me for help.”

Again Iorveth stepped closer. Suddenly there was a knife in his hand and pressed against Geralt’s windpipe. Iorveth leaned forward until Geralt could smell his breath, the scent of herbs light and comforting. "You fought alongside our cause, once" Iorveth said quietly, seeking out Geralt's gaze. "Why bond with the likes of Loredo now? Surely you know his kind. Racist, corrupt and greedy, even for a Dh’oine."

"Not all humans are like him."

Iorveth laughed. "Spare me, Vatt'ghern. This", he pointed sharply at the eye under his headscarf, "was done to me by humans. But not in Drakenborg, like they say, not by thugs or soldiers, not even by people like Loredo. My own _neighbors_ did this to me. One day they decided I was scum and too pretty, were afraid I would turn the heads of their precious daughters and sisters. They held me down while I thrashed and screamed and cut me open from eye to mouth. They’d have peeled my face off if I hadn’t managed to escape. So I ask again: Why are you fighting for him?"

"I’m not." Ignoring the pull of the arrow, Geralt pushed himself forward, right into Iorveth, who quickly raised an arm before his men could shoot. "I'm protecting my friends. If I don’t cooperate, Loredo will hang them with a smile on his ugly face."

"You could protect them by killing the swine." Iorveth laid a hand on Geralt's shoulder, pressing his fingers deeply into the flesh there. "You could side with us, Gwynbleidd."

Geralt could see it clearly now, the diverging path in front of him. Back in Wyzima, he had felt just like this when choosing between fighting for Yaevinn or Siegfried. In the end, he had defended the Scoia'tael, despite not liking their leader very much.

Iorveth was different. More brutal, more efficient, but he also presented Geralt with a reward that was more than just 'doing the right thing'. Letho had to be brought to justice. Geralt needed to clear his name, no matter the cost. And Iorveth was the last man Letho had worked with. He had to know something that would bring them closer to their target. And if it came to a fight, Geralt didn't doubt that he could handle whatever Loredo tried to throw at him. Roche wouldn't be pleased, but so long as Geralt ended up killing Letho, surely he'd forgive the means.

"What would you have me do?" Geralt asked. “Surely you do not trust my word alone?” A smile, almost undetectable, played around Iorveth's mouth.

"Loredo has prisoners on the barge. My men. I wish to free them."

"We'd have to fight our way through the whole city" Geralt said. "I know your elfs are good, but it might still cost too much."

Iorveth nodded. "What do you propose?"

"For now I play along." Geralt ripped the arrow out of his shoulder padding and let it fall to the forest floor. Iorveth watched him with keen interest, stepping back to give him some room. "Loredo thinks he has you outmaneuvered. He wants me to use Zoltan to gain access to you, then betray you. You will have to pretend to be my prisoner. I will bring you to the barge, where we kill the guards and free your men. If they don't expect resistance, they'll be unprepared."

"A plan that involves a lot of trust, considering you would have probably gone along with his wishes had we not met today." Iorveth narrowed his one eye. "How do I know that you will not change your mind again?"

Geralt spread his arms. “You don’t. But know this: I’d sooner plough a grave hag then help Loredo. I never intended to deliver you to him. I play along to get what I want, that’s what I’m good at.”

“And are you doing the same to me?”

“I don’t agree with your ideology, Iorveth. Yes, I will use you to get to Letho. But I will not betray you. Do you need proof?”

A grim smile played around the elfs lips. “It wouldn’t hurt.”

“There is somebody on the barge that you might be interested in. Loredo asked Triss and me to visit him, get information from him. His name is Ciaran.”

Iorveth’s expression shifted so fast Geralt barely had time to step back before he was crowded against the tree again. “Ciaran is _dead_.”

“Apparently not. Will you let me prove you wrong or not?”

The Scoia’tael leader hissed and turned away. “Bring me information only he would know. Then I will believe you. Don’t get killed in the meantime.”

  

* * *

  

Ciaran was in worse condition than Geralt had expected. The elf hung half-dead and bloody from chains wrapped around his wrists and was barely able to lean on his knees for support. His eyes were shut tight in pain, the marks of lashes and a few torn off fingernails speaking of the treatment he had received since being taken.

“Leave us with him” Geralt said to the guard that had opened the prison cell on the barge for them.

“Am not allowed to leave. Loredo’s orders.”

“Good man, Loredo wants information, which he will not get if the Scoia’tael doesn’t answer our questions.” Triss threw the soldier an annoyed glare. “And since you already tortured him to the brink of death, I daresay we don’t have much time. So leave, or I will make you.” Her fierce voice reminded Geralt of why he had started bedding her back in Wyzima. Ever since Foltest’s death and their conversations about Yennefer on the ship, their relationship had been a bit strained, but he still knew that he could count on her in everything. The grumbling guard left them alone, making Ciaran finally crack open one eye.

“Stinking d’hoine …” He blinked up at Geralt. “What do you want?”

“Iorveth sends me. He thought you dead and needs proof that you are not.”

“Why should I believe you? You cou… could be Loredo’s spy for all I know.”

Geralt nodded. “I could be. But I’m not. And neither is Triss. Loredo is planning to set a trap for Iorveth. I need to warn him, but he will not trust me until he has word from you.”

“It doesn’t matter … I will die here.”

Triss knelt down next to him, touching his body. “He’s right, Geralt” she said softly. “He is weak. I can keep him alive for a while longer, but there is not much life force for me to work with.”

Geralt nodded. “Do what you can.” While Triss put her palms on Ciaran’s forehead and whispered words in elder speech, he held the elf still with his Axii. After the white glow vanished, Ciaran took a gulp of air and pulled himself up a bit in his chains.

“How did you get caught?” Geralt asked, guessing this subject would raise less suspicion with the Scoia’tael. Ciaran spat blood on the ground.

“Letho. He betrayed my unit. Killed everyone. Only I escaped. He must have thought me dead like the rest of us.”

“Why would Letho want to kill you?” Triss asked. “He worked together with Iorveth to kill King Foltest, did he not?”

“Must have realized Iorveth’s not stupid. He wants him gone. Dead, before he can disrupt his plans in Aedirn. I need to warn him—” He tried to stand up, only to slump back into his cuffs.

“I will warn him” Geralt found himself saying. “If Iorveth has reason to break with Letho, he is more likely to help me find him.”

“You have to tell him … tell him I was glad to … share his …”

His head slumped to the side. Triss shook her head. “He’s gone. I’m sorry, Geralt. There was nothing more I could do.”

“You did your best” Geralt said bitterly. Would Iorveth still believe him if he told him that Ciaran had died in front of his eyes? Or would the elf shoot him on the spot?

_Only one way to find out._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt has to make a decision.

Geralt had barely said goodbye to Triss, who needed to tend to some _important business_ , when somebody across the street called his name.

Geralt looked up, annoyed by this turn of events. People never _just called_ him over to ask how he was, there was always somebody wanting something from him. Usually something that had to do with the two swords on his back. He considered shortly to just walk past the anxious looking guy and find Iorveth straight away, but then recognized the man as Loredo’s.

He stepped up to the soldier. "What?"

"Loredo has business with you, Witcher", the man said, eyeing Geralt with a mixture of fear and cockiness. "Says it can't wait. You're to see him straightaway."

"And did Loredo tell you what he wants from me?" Geralt inquired, eyebrow raised. Was this about his visit to Ciaran?

"Didn't tell me nothing."

Geralt sighed. The commandant was the most powerful man in Flotsam and also the man that was in charge of his two friend’s death sentences. Geralt had to at least listen to what he had to say.

That didn't mean he liked it.

The guards at the gate to Loredo's residence asked Geralt for his weapons, which was normal, and then smirked at him when they thought he couldn't see, which was not. Something wasn't right. He passed a group of soldiers next to the fire, chugging down cheap beer and pawing at two whores with iron smiles painted on their faces.

Geralt found Loredo on the second floor in his office. The commandant was ugly, with his bald head and fat chin, and to Geralt's distaste he smelled sharply of garlic and wine.

"You summoned me?" Geralt asked in a tone that was as close to mockery as he could get away with. Loredo didn't notice.

"There's good news, Witcher!" he said and stepped forward, lightly swaying. He grabbed the wine bottle from the desk and waved it at him. "Want some?"

Geralt curled his lip. "Not in the mood."

"Business only then, if you've got a stick up your arse." Loredo took a big swig and came away from the bottle half-moaning. Geralt thought about the poor whore that had to pretend to enjoy this man's company and suppressed a shiver. Leaning back and crossing his arms, he studied Loredo's office for the second time in the last few days while the man put the bottle back on his desk. There was something there that didn't belong, a note, scrawled on ripped-out paper and muddy at the edges.

"What's this?" asked Geralt and nodded in the direction of the paper in question. Loredo caught his gaze and smiled.

"I see you found the reason for your visit. Nothing less to be expected from you, I guess. Now," he took up the note and held it to him, "see for yourself."

Geralt took the paper and studied it. It smelled of smoke, blood and grime. Most importantly though, the fingerprints left in the earthy dust were huge, and there was only one such guy around that Geralt knew of.

"Letho?" he asked incredulous.

"Stop sniffing the damned thing and read already."

Geralt did. The writing was slanted, but neat enough that he could make out the words. _The great oak._

Beneath the words was drawn a crude map of the forest south of Flotsam, a part deep in the woods marked with a circle. Geralt looked up. "The great oak?" he asked. "What is this supposed to be?"

"Iorveth’s hideout, what else?" Loredo rubbed his hands in excitement. "Seems like the elf isn’t useful to Letho anymore and now he’s serving the bastard to us on a silver platter. What do you think, Witcher?"

"Could be a trap", Geralt said. "And I’d rather catch Letho than Iorveth. He killed your _king_ , remember?"

"Pah." Loredo waved his hand in annoyance. "Do you know how much these fucking squirrels have terrorized my city? How many of my men they killed? I’ll be damned if I let this opportunity pass. So I want you to go, find out if it’s a trap or not. If he’s there, you give us a sign and we surround the tree. Tell him that if he doesn’t come with us peacefully, I’ll slaughter his little rebellion. What do you say?"

"I don’t think it will work", Geralt said, trying to dissuade Loredo. "I cannot imagine him giving up. He’d rather die fighting than listen to a lowly human."

"What you tell him to come with you is not my business", Loredo said. "You will help us catch him and in return I’ll see what I can do about your friend's death sentences. Those still exist, you know?"

Geralt stayed silent a moment longer. If it meant freeing Zoltan and Dandelion and getting to leave this cursed city quicker, it should have been all the same to him. What was Iorveth to him? Nothing but a proud Aen Seidhe turned murderer. Except he did care. And it was true what he had told Iorveth. He was not going to betray him, and he was definitely not helping Loredo destroy the lifes of even more non-humans in Flotsam. Because once the Scoia’tael were not a problem anymore, he knew the purging would start in the city proper.

"Fine, I’ll do it. I need to make some preparations, so don’t position your men before dawn. I don’t trust your people to keep themselves hidden. Either way, it could still be a trap, so only move on my command.”

"Sure, sure."

Geralt nodded, stuffed the note in his pocket and left. He hoped Loredo would send his drunken bunch of thugs. Iorveth would laugh in their faces if they tried to catch him.

 

* * *

 

Back in the main square, Geralt checked if he was followed, then made his way towards the forest. By now it was deep night, the moonlight reaching the soft ground only in a few scattered places. Nekkers he didn't meet, but it didn’t take long before he felt eyes following his movements.

He could hear at least three different pair of nimble feet up in the trees, as well as the light hum of bowstrings being drawn. He hadn’t quite reached the marked point on the map yet, but the Scoia'tael must have seen him coming. Instead of feigning ignorance, he lifted his hands in surrender.

"I know you’re there, Iorveth!" he called. For a few seconds nothing happened. Then, a sword came around his neck, pressing almost lovingly against his windpipe.

"Do not turn around, Gwynbleidd" Iorveth said softly, voice barely more than a whisper. "There are four arrows pointing at you."

“I thought we were past these greetings” he said, slowly and without moving. "I met with Ciaran and I need to talk." He waited until the pressure on his throat eased up a bit.

"So talk."

"You have been betrayed." Geralt let one hand drop to show Iorveth the note, but an arrow shot straight past him, only a finger's span away from his face. "My jacket" Geralt said instead. "There is a letter."

The blade shifted as Iorveth curled an arm around Geralt and began groping over his chest and through his pockets. The touch of his fingers was both light and deft and it sent a small tingle through Geralt. Then, the fingers left him, drawing away the crumpled piece of paper. Geralt turned his head slightly, until he could make out the elf's form from the corner of his eye. Iorveth was looking at the note, his one visible brow furrowing. The red headscarf was wound tight around half of his face, leather bands holding the thick cloth in place, only one ear poking out. The end of a scar curled down from underneath and to the corner of his mouth. The moonlight cast sharp shadows beneath his eye and nose.

Finally, he let the sword sink down and rounded Geralt until they stood face to face. "My archers still have you in their sight", he warned. "And now speak. What of Ciaran?"

“We spoke with him briefly. He didn’t believe you send me, but did tell me how he got caught.”

“Loredo’s man ambushed his unit” Iorveth supplied.

“Wrong. There was an ambush, but it was Letho that attacked them.”

Iorveth’s eye narrowed. “Ciaran said this?”

“Letho finds you too smart. When Ciaran found out about his plan to betray you to Loredo with this” he nodded at the map, “he killed his whole unit before they could warn you.”

"How do I know you didn’t write this yourself?" Iorveth asked and looked up, right into Geralt's eyes. Geralt quickly looked back to the note, not daring to move his head too much in case the next arrow hit its target.

"Check my hands" Geralt said, still not moving. "Do my fingers look big enough to leave such prints?"

Iorveth looked up at Geralt's hands briefly, then back down at the note.

“Indeed they do not. What about Ciaran? Is he alive?”

Geralt swallowed. “I’m sorry. He died after telling us what he knew. He was imprisoned for a while already, and the guards had tortured him for information.”

“Which he never gave them.” Iorveth stared at the piece of paper as if it could bring Ciaran back to life. “He was my second in command. My best man.”

Geralt heard the sounds of bows being lowered. Careful, so as not to startle the elf, he laid a hand on Iorveth’s shoulder. “I’m sorry he is dead. There was something else he tried to say, at the end. I cannot make sense of it.”

Iorveth’s stare pierced through him. “Say it.”

“ _I’m glad that I could share his …_ I don’t know how he meant to finish.”

Iorveth grit his teeth, slamming his fist into the tree trunk by Geralt’s side. “He meant many things. Only Ciaran would have used these words. I believe you, Vatt’ghern. So, what now. What is Loredo planning?”

“He will try to ambush you. I’m supposed to make my way here tomorrow, then signal them if I find you. We will pretend you agreed to his terms of surrender. Once on the barge, we proceed as planned.”

Iorveth stared at him, his fingers tapping on his strong upper arm. Geralt swallowed down the unbidden heat rising in his belly and stepped forward, procuring a long leather strap.

“Do you surrender?” he asked.

Iorveth nodded, waving away some elfs that were imploringly speaking to him. “Hide. Before you know it, I will have returned with our brothers and sisters.”

"Turn around", Geralt ordered, feeling anxious. He needed to be quick, bring Iorveth to the city before Loredo could get it into his head to use Geralt as a distraction and attack the Scoia’tael anyway, no matter the promises that had been made.

Iorveth did.

"On your knees."

Iorveth snarled, but after casting a last glance at his fighters, he dropped down. Geralt quickly produced a thick strip of leather from his pocket. He tied it around Iorveth's wrist, tight enough to pass inspection, but with enough give that Iorveth could free himself if he had to. Ignoring the unwanted feeling of something that surged through him at the sight of Iorveth obeying his commands and being on his knees in front of him, Geralt grabbed him by the upper arm and pulled him along, down the path he had come, relishing in the knowledge that they had outsmarted Loredo so easily. They had not come very far, by the time he realized something felt wrong. The air was too still, monsters absent, the wildlife silent.

That's when the screaming started.

Geralt spun around, drawing his steel sword. The smell of blood assaulted his nostrils like a booming red wave of death. Without thinking, he shoved Iorveth away and ran back the way they had come, but he was too late. He stared in horror at the sight that awaited him.

Loredo’s soldiers were wiping the blood from their swords and pulling arrows out of arms and chests. Corpses littered the ground, some of them broken beyond recognition, having fallen from the trees like stones.

The Scoia'tael had not expected the attack. How should they have, after Geralt had told them Loredo's plan? Except apparently, Geralt had never known it himself.

"Thought you had me fooled, did ya?"

Geralt turned around, hand gripping the hilt of his steel sword as if it were the man’s neck. Loredo looked at him with obvious glee. Behind him, four soldiers wrestled a cursing Iorveth to the ground, tightening the leather on his wrists. As soon as he was secure, they struck him on the head with the butt of a sword and pulled him away.

Geralt swallowed. "What do you mean?"

"I did my research on you, Witcher" Loredo said, smiling. "Once an elf-lover, always an elf-lover, or so they say. I admit that the Order of the White Rose in Wyzima wasn't much better, but to betray your own kind like that? I knew the elf would sway you again, no matter what I offered, so I had you followed ever since you met with Ciaran." Loredo made a step forward, his voice rising. "And I did offer, didn't I? I gave you a chance and you _spit_ on it." He grinned and turned to go, another ten soldiers stepping up behind him. "So now you will hang. Who knows, maybe I’ll keep your little witch for company, so she won’t feel so lonely. I'm sure she knows how to pleasure a man, even if it's a freak like you."

Geralt ripped his sword from his back and turned on the soldier that had sneaked up on his right. The steel flashed and his head flew to the ground, the body spasming for a few seconds before it realized it was dead. In one swift motion, Geralt turned and set another soldier on fire with a flick of his fingers. Igni burned through the man's defenses, lighting his hair and clothes on fire and melting the skin from his bones.

The rest fell to his sword. Step, slash, roll, feint, Aard, hack, evade. Geralt's body moved on its own, relying solely on the instincts he had acquired in a lifetime of fighting against monsters stronger and faster than any human.

When Geralt finally lifted his head, blood pounding in his ears, he spotted the last two soldiers that were slowly backing away. He came for them, one step at a time. The left one screamed, turned tail and fled into the forest. The other sank to his knees, pee pooling below him in the earth. Geralt speared his neck with the sword, blood spattering his chest and face.

When he turned around, Loredo had vanished. Cursing himself a fool, Geralt ran towards the city. Iorveth was captured, unconscious. Geralt didn't know what they were going to do with him, but since they had gone through the trouble of keeping him alive, they wanted information. And the best way to get those was through pain.

He hadn't gone twenty steps before a hulking figure dropped down in front of him. The fog had thickened and for a second, Geralt was certain it was the troll from the bridge, but then the creature lifted its head and a pair of glowing cat eyes stared at him. A snarl ripped itself from Geralt's throat.

" _Letho_."

"Geralt." The Witcher looked at him, bemused. His muscles were bulging, like they would burst from underneath his skin any moment. The snake medallion around his neck glittered in the moonlight. "It has been a while. How are you doing?"

"They think _I'm_ responsible for Foltest's death." Geralt tried to keep his voice level, but it proved impossible."Was this your plan all along?" he demanded.

"No, but it certainly made things easier." Letho gave him a lazy smile. "When I saw you enter with the king, I was sure you would recognize me. Alas, your memory loss came in handy. By the time you realized what was going on, I had completed my mission. That they think you are his murderer was a nice bonus, but not intended. Cast your blame where it belongs."

Geralt ground his teeth. His fingers were gripping his sword too tightly, and he knew it, but the sight of Letho right in front of him made him lose his cool like nothing had in a while.

"Why are you here?"

"To see how my message was received, of course." Letho looked past Geralt to the dead Scoia'tael littering the ground. "Not quite what I had in mind, but they did catch Iorveth, which was the main goal."

"I will save him" Geralt said, his mind skipping to images of Iorveth on the barge, or in a cellar, being tortured, screaming.

Letho shrugged. "Do what you must. I simply wanted to inform you that Triss is coming with me."

Geralt snapped his attention back to Letho. "What makes you think I'll let you leave alive?"

"You cannot defeat me" the Witcher said. "Not yet. Fighting me now is pointless and will only get you killed. But as you saved my life once, I will spare you today. Here are your options: I will find Triss Merigold and make her teleport me to Aedirn, so you can either follow me and try to get to her first, or you can go after Iorveth, before the last hope of the Scoia'tael dies at Loredo's hands. Your choice."

With that, he turned around and vanished in the fog.

For a second, Geralt's mind was in shambles. There they were again, the crossroads of fate. He hadn't seen Triss a lot since arriving in Flotsam, assuming she was busy spying after Silè de Tancarville, the last time having been yesterday on the barge. Now Letho was coming for her. But he needed her alive.

The same was not true for Iorveth.

The elf had lost his whole rebellion in a single strike, and not in honorable combat, but in a trap. A trap he had fallen for only because he had trusted Geralt.

Triss could look after herself. Not Iorveth. Not this time. Sheathing his sword, Geralt sprinted towards the city.

He didn't have much time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth is in deep trouble.

When Iorveth opened his left eye, his skull felt split in two. The smell of damp wood, leather and sweat filled his nostrils as he carefully lifted his head to take in his surroundings.

He was tied spread-eagled to a wooden wall, the metal of the chains sharply cutting into his skin. In the far corner of the little room his bow, quiver and sword lay cluttered on the ground. Above him, footsteps sounded, small stripes of light forcing their way through the floorboards. Dust rained down on him and the gentle lurching of what he assumed was the prison barge did awful things to his stomach.

Iorveth took a deep breath, testing his chains. The ones on his ankles were loose enough that he could make half a step forward, but his wrists were tied snugly against the wall, leaving him no wriggling room. Just as he tried reaching for the lock with the tips of his fingers, the door opened and two Dh’oine soldiers entered, eyes bloodshot from giddy victory. They came closer, eyeing him like a puppy they were about to kick.

The left one, a bald brute whose skin was covered in unidentifiable tattoos, stepped up to him. He grinned, revealing a few missing teeth. "Loredo gave us the honor of breaking you, elf. We have a few questions for you, if you don't mind." He reached for him.

Iorveth didn't wait to find out what he was going to do. The second the man's hand came into reach, Iorveth snapped his head forward, biting into the soldier's finger, through skin and right down to the bone. The laughter morphed into a howl, then a fist caught Iorveth in the stomach and even though he tried not to, his unsettled insides cramped up and he vomited, releasing the hold of the finger. The soldier stepped back with a snarl of disgust as Iorveth heaved and spit out.

"Got fangs on you" the other guy drawled. When Iorveth looked up again, the man held a knife in hand, the blade glinting sharply in the torchlight. A scar marred his stubbly cheek and his eyes were the muddy brown of swamp water. "Loredo wants us to ask the questions first, but so long as we leave your tongue intact, a little warm-up should be fine. Foreplay, shall we say?" He came closer, carefully staying out of Iorveth's reach.

Before Iorveth could react, Baldy threw his fist forward and punched him square in the mouth. Iorveth spit out blood, touching a loosened tooth with his tongue. The next punch landed on his solar plexus, leaving him gasping for air. A knee found his lower abdomen. A few minutes later, he felt like a piece of pounded meat fresh from the butcher. Blood dripped from his nose, over his lips and down his chin and his legs felt shaky, barely holding up his weight.

"Feeling talkative already?" Scarface inquired gleefully as he leaned forward. "Where are the rest of your little Squirrels?"

"D'yaebl aép arse" Iorveth snarled through blood coated teeth. The next kick caught him in his groin and he doubled over in pain, white light clouding his vision.

"I ask again, Elf", Scarface said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Where are they?"

"I will never tell you." Bracing himself for the next blow, Iorveth closed his eye. Instead, the leatherbands were ripped from his head, right before air met the usually covered right side of his face. Iorveth's good eye opened in a flash, just in time to see Baldy step away grinning, the red headscarf in his hands.

"Bloede Dh’oine!" Iorveth howled, throwing himself against the metal chains. "I will kill you! I will crush your entire race like cockroaches!"

"Look at his big mouth" Scarface mocked, twirling the knife in his hands. "How are you gonna do that, tied up like a duck as you are?" He tilted his head, taking in what Iorveth knew was the gruesome scar that twisted its way from the corner of his mouth up to the ruin of his empty eye socket.

"Ugly duck" Baldy agreed. Iorveth threw himself against the chains again, but the soldier quickly came forward and pressed his arm against his throat, effectively gluing Iorveth against the wall.

"What do you think?" Scarface asked, coming so close that Iorveth smelt his rotten breath. "Should we do the same on the other side? Maybe symmetry will help."

"Yeah" Baldy said eagerly, putting more weight onto Iorveth's neck until the elf was choking.

"Or maybe we should start somewhere else" Scarface continued, trailing the knife over Iorveth's groin, up his belly and towards his trapped arm. "I’ve always wondered how many fingers you’d have to cut off until you can't hold a bow anymore. Two? Three?"

"I don't care what you do to me" Iorveth said, ignoring the panic that rose in his chest like a cloud of choking ash. "I will _never_ bow to the likes of you."

Scarface smiled, as if he had not only expected this answer, but hoped for it. "Then you leave me no choice. Uleg, hold him."

Uleg changed his stance, grabbing Iorveth's throat with his left hand and using the other to press his chained hand flush against the wooden wall. Scarface stepped up to them, lifting the knife and pressing the blade against the little finger of Iorveth’s left hand. "Let's start with this one" he said gleefully, and began to saw.

In the beginning, Iorveth managed to stay silent, but when metal bit into bone, he screamed. The knife cut through the last strand of skin and his finger fell to the ground. Scarface stepped on it, crushing the little digit under his sole.

"Where are the other Scoia'tael?” he repeated. Iorveth panted through gritted teeth, slamming his head against the wood behind him to fight through the pain. "Still nothing?" Scarface asked, starting to cut through the skin on Iorveth's ringfinger. "Oh, I will enjoy this."

"So will I."

Iorveth's eye flew open, just in time to see a silvery flash pass in front of his face. Scarface was still looking at him, a confused look in his eyes, crimson blood bubbling from the cut in his neck. The next moment, his head toppled to the side and his body crumpled.

The pressure from his neck vanished as Uleg jumped back and tried to flee, but the doorway was blocked.

Geralt stood in the middle of the room, blade dripping with blood and chest heaving, yellow cat eyes fixed on Loredo's man. His harsh pants were drowned out by Uleg’s whimpers as the Witcher lifted his hand, forming a sign with his fingers. A white glow formed around Uleg's head.

"You were a very bad boy" Geralt intoned calmly. "You should gauge out your own eyes as punishment, don't you think?"

"Yes" Uleg said numbly. "You're right of course. I should be punished."

Iorveth watched in fascination as he pulled a dagger from his belt, poked out his left eye and screamed in pain, before he went for the other one. When it was over, Geralt made him cut his throat.

Only then did he turn towards Iorveth, fury like thunder in his eyes when he saw the severed finger. Iorveth swallowed, fighting for composure, even though the pain was pulsing like poison through his hand and he was starting to feel light-headed.

"I'm sorry I didn't get here in time" Geralt said. He patted down the soldiers until he found the key to Iorveth's shackles and started unchaining him. When Iorveth's hands came free, he almost fell forward, except that Geralt was there, catching him by standing close enough that Iorveth could lean on him for a second to regain his balance.

"Did you kill the guards?" Iorveth asked, thankful for his even voice.

"Most of them" Geralt agreed, pulling a piece of cloth from his pocket, soaking it in a sharply smelling liquid Iorveth identified as alcohol and then quickly ripping it into strips. "There are still a few guarding the prisoners. I didn't have time for them all."

"What are you doing?" Iorveth asked when Geralt reached for his hand.

"You need bandages" Geralt said.

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding" Geralt countered, grabbing Iorveth's hand and bandaging the stump with efficient motions. "Pretending to be fine will not help you recover, so spare your pride for until we're on our way."

" _Our_ way?" Iorveth spat, pulling his hand away as soon as Geralt was finished. "My men are _dead_. So is our deal. You sold me to Loredo."

"Why would I come save you if I had?"

To that, Iorveth had no answer.

"I will explain later" Geralt said, then went to the corner of the room and handed Iorveth his weapons back. "Letho has Triss and is surely on his way to Aedirn by now. We must get Zoltan and Dandelion and leave the city before Loredo finds out what happened."

"Letho?" Iorveth asked, wincing as he used his injured hand to put his bow in place. "You met him?"

"In the forest, after they took you." Geralt went to the door, stayed still for a moment, then opened it and waved for Iorveth to follow. "It's clear. Come!"

Iorveth was about to comply when he saw his headscarf on the ground. He quickly grabbed it and tied it back around the scarred side of his face. When Geralt looked at him questioningly, he pulled the knot tight in answer. The Witcher shrugged and left the room.

Iorveth looked down at his hand, the bandage already bled through. Without Geralt, he'd have lost all the fingers on his left hand by now. By the end of the night, he'd have been dead. He owed Geralt, a human, his life.

It made him furious.

 

* * *

 

Even though he stayed calm on the outside, Geralt's insides shook. He had heard Iorveth's screams from above, had smelled his panic and fear through the wood, knowing all the time that he was too late, always too late. Too late to save Foltest, too late to see through Loredo's plan and save the Scoia'tael. Too late to save Iorveth's finger.

Just the thought of the proud leader, arrogant and brutal, reduced to helpless screaming, made his vision cloud over in anger. He cast a glance back at the elf. The exposed side of his face was pale as bone, and blood was dripping from the severed finger of his left hand.

"Triss" Iorveth said suddenly, catching his eye. "Will she be alright?"

"He needs her for the teleportation" Geralt said, forcing confidence into his voice he didn't feel. "And she is a sorceress. She can handle herself."

"It is still puzzling" Iorveth continued, "that you would abandon her and come for me instead. You owe me nothing, Gwynbleidd."

Geralt was about to snap at him when he detected movement near one of the cages. "Quick" he whispered, stepping lightly into the shadow. Iorveth followed without missing a beat, pulling the sword from its sheath. Geralt didn't like the fact that he wanted to fight already with his wound still fresh, but Iorveth deserved revenge and would not react kindly to Geralt ordering him around. At least he wasn't crazy enough to use his bow.

The soldier rounded a corner, his eyes passing over Geralt and Iorveth, before they darted back and he opened his mouth to shout. Iorveth threw himself forward, burying his sword in the man's chest almost to the hilt and pressing his injured hand to his mouth, effectively muffling the scream. After the guard was dead, Iorveth ripped the blade out from between the ribs and searched the body for keys. He threw them to Geralt who caught the metal ring with one hand.

"Come" he said and nodded towards the cages that hugged the wall farther down. Iorveth eased the corpse to the ground and followed. Together, they went past the cages, checking for signs of life and whispering reassurances where they found it. Geralt unlocked the cages, while Iorveth helped the elfs out and told them to stay silent and find a weapon if they could.

All but three were alive. One of the dead was Ciaran. Iorveth went to his knees next to the elf, whispering something in elder speech and kissing his eyes, before standing up and continuing his rescue.

Geralt knew none of the survivors, but he could see a bit of life returning to Iorveth's face with each one they freed. It was a bitter twist of irony that those captured would live, while the ones by Iorveth's side had been slaughtered.

When they were done, Iorveth leaned against the wooden wall of the ship, looking for all the world like he'd faint. Geralt felt a surge of respect and fondness in his chest at the sight. Iorveth had lost so much today, but still he stood upright. He was a fighter, ready to die for his cause.

Geralt only wished it wasn't a lost one.

 

* * *

 

Flotsam, when they arrived, was in chaos. A dead dwarf lay face-down in the muddy street, blood mixing with the water puddle beneath. Close to Loredo's residence, a few humans had ganged up on two female elfs, spitting in their faces.

Iorveth's hand was throbbing, the loss of his finger still fresh in his mind, but at the sight of this injustice all pain was forgotten. He quickened his steps. Next to him, Geralt did the same, using his Witcher signs in passing to make the men leave. Iorveth was not going to be so merciful.

"You find your friends" he ordered and pulled the sword from its sheath, silently willing Geralt to object, to defend the humans, to make him promise not to kill anyone. Geralt didn't. He gave a curt nod and left towards the tavern. Iorveth ground his teeth. Why were the Witcher's morals so unpredictable?

With a last glance back to the human who had saved his life, he ran towards the non-human district, looking for signs of other attacks. There were many. He had barely passed through one complete street and already his arm was tiring from cutting off limbs and heads. By now, word had gone around that Iorveth himself had come to Flotsam, the devil of the forest, vengeance personified, and most of the citizens had fled to their homes, barring doors and windows. Iorveth wished he had the time and energy to kill them one by one. Instead, he held steady towards the place where the loudest screams were coming from.

Smoke filled the sky above the little hut, and swords and other weapons lay cluttered on the ground or hung askew on the wall. In the little smithy, four men held down an elf woman together, pressing the side of her face into the anvil, while the fifth cut off her elongated ear.

Flashes of memories filled Iorveth's head, the stench of blood, the excruciating pain of his ruined eye, laughter, the knife, travelling down his face, the blade scraping on bone and teeth. A roar brought him back into reality, his own, he realized, as he ran forward, wielding his sword and swinging right through the man's arm. The scream that followed was sweet, _so sweet_ , and Iorveth took a step back, turned around backwards and cut through the other arm as well before he speared the Dh’oine from behind.

The humans shrieked, trying to flee, but this time, Iorveth was not going to let them. His own assailants had escaped him, had never been brought to justice. It was not going to happen again.

A few quick strikes and one very short sword fight later he stood panting and feeling more alive than ever next to the elf that slowly lifted herself up, clutching the bleeding side of her head.

"They are gone" Iorveth said, his voice raw and husky as it only was after combat. "You are safe."

" _Safe?_ " The elf stared at him in disgust. "They'd have left me alone eventually! What will happen when they return, remembering I was saved by a terrorist like you, and you are not there to help? At least I would have survived tonight!"

Coldness clutched at Iorveth's heart. Of course. After his brothers and sisters in arms had died tonight, just the sight of an elf in danger was enough to make him desperate. He had forgotten that these elfs would rather be a human's pet than fight for their freedom. They were weak. They had forgotten the pride of their kin.

Still, he forced himself to give her another chance. "We took control of the prison barge. If you wish to leave the city tonight, come with us."

She stared at him, first shocked, then angry, opening her mouth to say something. Iorveth didn't stay long enough to find out what. From the corner of his eye, he detected a shock of silver hair in the night. Without a glance back, he sheathed his sword and ran to meet Geralt.

The Witcher smiled at him bitterly when Iorveth reached the unlikely group. Zoltan he knew. The dwarf had been in contact with his Scoia'tael for some time, though he had never decided to join. The other one looked like the worst nightmare of a human Iorveth could imagine. He wore a violet doublet that was so gruesome he almost wished the soldiers had started with his other eye instead of his fingers, on his back hung a lute and he looked for all the world like a pompous lordling not suited for either travel or combat. Iorveth curled his lip in disgust, turned away and caught Geralt's bemused gaze.

"This is Dandelion", the Witcher introduced the man. "Famous bard, general pain in the ass, and surprisingly my best friend."

"I always have to save him", Dandelion added smugly.

 

* * *

 

When they finally set foot on the barge, the sun was already rising, a pink and yellow hue on the horizon. Iorveth felt his body protesting, the bloodloss and beating taking their toll. But whenever he saw Geralt glancing at him, he found a last piece of energy in himself. He was not going to let the Witcher see him collapse. Or worse, being carried below deck like a damsel.

The rescued Scoia'tael members quickly manned the barge in silence. They had to leave the harbor, before Loredo sent all of his soldiers. Apart from Geralt, none of their group was strong enough to win a fight tonight, outnumbered as they were.

Iorveth leaned against a mast, breathing heavily, when suddenly Geralt appeared before him.

"You should go down and rest" he said quietly, eyeing Iorveth with something that was not quite pity but too close for his liking.

"So that you can take control of the ship and do what you wish?" he asked back. "Make no mistake, Vatt'ghern. Just because we're working together for now, does not mean I trust you."

The Witcher smiled ruefully. "It will do no good if you collapse on deck, Iorveth. Get Dandelion to bandage your hand properly and sleep for a few hours. I can take things from here."

Iorveth was distracted by hearing his name being pronounced by the Witcher, his lips forming the sounds in a weird way, rounder at the edges somehow. It felt wrong. Intimate. Too late Iorveth realized Geralt was still waiting for an answer. He must be thinking the wound was impacting his brain.

"I will not —" he began, but was interrupted by the light of a torch, high on the tower next to the harbor. It was wielded by a portly, bald man. Even from afar, Iorveth recognized him. "Loredo" he spat, the word tasting like gravel in his mouth.

Geralt spun around, following Iorveth's gaze. "Bloody bastard" he hissed, then turned back around. "Go below. I will get us away and— Iorveth!"

Iorveth didn't listen. Blood was pulsing in his ears, drowning out the sounds of everything else. He only heard Loredo's laughter, even though he wasn't laughing, was saying something the elf couldn't make out. Geralt grabbed his arm, but Iorveth's strength had returned, his injury forgotten.

Roaring, he jumped onto the railing, pulling the bow from his back and knocking an arrow. His left hand holding the smooth wood was only slightly shaky, blood dripping down the long curve of his weapon. Iorveth's grip tightened.

Something tried to pull him away, a hand on his boot, but it was too late. He let fly, the arrow hissing through the air, all movement stilled but that of the narrow shaft, spinning and spinning and spinning …

Iorveth hit the deck with his feet, sensing Geralt's presence next to him rather than seeing him. His gaze followed the arrow. Even before it hit, he knew he had missed. Instead of punching through Loredo's right eye, the iron had embedded itself in his shoulder. Loredo's gave a short cry, dropped the torch and fled down through the tower, clutching his wound.

"Iorveth!" Geralt's scream followed him, over the railing, down the harbor, after Loredo who was sprinting towards the city and the safety of his property. Iorveth barely registered the fire in the tower or the hands of soldiers grabbing him. In front of him was running his prize.

Revenge was his.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth wants revenge. Geralt tries to do the right thing.

“Iorveth!”

Geralt’s scream echoed in his own ears, unheard or simply ignored by the elven leader who was currently sprinting after Loredo. The chief was still clutching his shoulder, stubbornly fighting on. Geralt jumped after them, over the railing, ready to chase down Iorveth and bring him back before he fainted. That's when he noticed the fire.

One last look to Iorveth, but the Scoia’tael had already disappeared in the throng of onlookers that were shouting and pointing at the column of smoke rising from the watchtower. From inside, he could hear screams and crying.

Geralt cursed and took a sharp left. No time. If Iorveth wanted revenge, he had to get it without him. In front of him, a few soldiers lifted their weapons, seemingly confused by the turn of events but ready to get in his way.

Geralt pulled his steel sword, taking two quick steps and jumping on the third, using his momentum to stab the nearest guard right through the neck. He landed, sword trailing after him in a bloody arc, then turned swiftly and slashed at the second soldier, before parrying another and blasting Igni behind himself, where the last man had tried to sneak up on him.

The fight was over in seconds. Geralt didn’t pause, but kicked in the door and ran through the lower level before climbing up the ladders. Around him, fire was eating at the wooden walls and smoke choked the air. The heat was everywhere, flickering at his clothes and skin and singing his hair. The crying grew louder. When he finally reached the top floor, he could barely breathe and his eyes were tearing up from the biting smoke. He could only just make out the huddled shapes of three elven women on the ground. For a second, anger filled him. Righteous, burning anger. He let it go and concentrated on getting them free. The first two were no problem, the moment he got rid of their ties, they ran to the open balcony, gasping for air and jumping down into the Pontar.

But the last one. Geralt growled in frustration. The woman was barely breathing, almost unconscious. Instead of leather, she was secured with metal shackles that were rapidly heating up, her wrists already burned.

Geralt fumbled with a small piece of metal to open the cuffs, but he was not an expert. A Witcher did not need finesse of this kind. If he wanted to get through a locked door, he killed the owner of the key or at least made them open it with Axii.

Geralt stopped breathing altogether, grabbed his sword and slammed the hilt down again and again and again. His vision began to fade.

For a few seconds, nothing happened, then suddenly the poorly worked and warmed up metal gave in and the chains slipped from the securing metal ring. He grabbed the woman, helped her up and ran for the balcony. The elf jumped first, climbing over the railing and throwing herself forward.

It was a close call. A group of clustered rocks hugged the base of the watchtower, jutting from the water in uneven formations, and Geralt was certain she was going to fall right into them. But luck was on her side. She fell into the water just three meters away, plunging through the dark surface. A few seconds later, she came up again, dress bulging in the water beneath her like an unfurling flower. When she had joined her friends, Geralt took a few steps back, started running, jumped on the railing and from there into the river.

It was a good jump. It would have carried him far over the dangerous rocks and into safety. Would have, had his foot not in that exact moment decided to slip on the smooth-worn wood.

Geralt wasn’t falling; he plummeted down, the rocks coming closer. In the last second, he formed the Quen-Sign with his fingers, but it was too late. The shield had not fully formed when he fell headfirst into the cold water and hit his head on the rock just a meter under the surface. The Quen dissipated, saving his life.

The pain that exploded in Geralt’s head made him gasp, releasing all the air in his lungs and the next moment, numbness flooded him and he felt himself sink into the darkness of the Pontar.

                                                                                                                            

* * *

  

Iorveth had never felt as alive as he did during the wild chase that carried him after Loredo and through half of Flotsam. His breath was coming in painful bursts and his hand that still clutched the bow in a blood-slick deathgrip felt like it was going to fall off any second. Loredo was not looking much better, holding his injured shoulder and whimpering and huffing. He ran as fast as he could, no doubt, but even if he was, Iorveth was a fighter, a man of the woods, a born hunter. His feet carried him safely over uneven cobblestones and past corpses on the streets where Loredo had to slow down or even tripped. Then, when his lungs felt like they must burst any second, Iorveth's free hand grabbed Loredo by the collar and pulled him back. The chief gasped when he hit the ground, eyes staring up fearfully at Iorveth, who stood over him now, smiling a wolf's smile, all teeth and no mercy.

"Please", Loredo said, but he shut up when Iorveth pulled an arrow from the quiver across his back and notched it carefully. He felt like he should say something, about how Loredo had made life for his kind hell, how he was the worst of the Dh’oine Iorveth had ever faced, how Iorveth wished he could kill him in the most painful ways again and again and again …

In the end, he just let fly and watched as the arrow punched through Loredo's still open mouth and neck and into the ground below. "Too quick an end for you", Iorveth murmured. _But nothing I do to you will bring my men back_ , his mind whispered.

It was over. Iorveth felt all his strength drain from his limbs, the loss of this day suddenly clear in his heart. They were dead. All of them. His friends. His followers. His family.

Dead.

He choked down the sob that wanted to fight its way to the surface. Iorveth hadn't cried ever since his face had been mutilated and he was not going to start now. With sheer willpower he forced himself to stand up straight and turn around. Geralt would reach him any second now, Iorveth had heard his voice following after him when he left the ship. He was prepared to ignore any plea the Witcher made for him to rest, but when he turned, there was nobody there. Curious. Iorveth could have sworn that …

In the distance, the watchtower burned like a torch in the night and Iorveth remembered another detail he had forgotten while he chased after Loredo. The female screams from inside the tower.

It shouldn’t have been possible, but Iorveth started running again. How could it be that he, the leader of the free elfs, the Scoia'tael, had ignored the pleas of his own kind, while Geralt, a Witcher, a friend of none, a man who only helped for money, went to save them? For that was where Geralt had to have gone. Iorveth was certain. The only thing he was uncertain of was the state the Witcher was in now.

His chase had felt longer than it must have actually lasted, for it barely took Iorveth a minute to come within shouting distance of the harbor. He came to a sudden halt when he saw the two shapes in the water beneath the tower, bobbing on the black water. Suddenly, a third fell from the sky, and Iorveth's heart sang with relief at the sight of the elfs. Geralt had done it. Iorveth had been blind with rage, but not so the Witcher. Surely he would be the next to jump.

Catching his breath, Iorveth slowly came closer, peering into the dark. There it was, the tall shape of Geralt on the balcony, lit back in red and gold by the raging fire behind him. He took a running start to clear the rocks at the base of the tower, the smart move.

Iorveth saw the exact moment that Geralt tripped.

The Witcher plummeted into the waters, right into the place where the tips of rocks jutted from the water. And once again, Iorveth ran. His bow, quiver and swords landed on the wooden boards behind him while he sprinted towards the place where Geralt had gone under and not resurfaced. With the despair Iorveth had felt when the first of his men fell to the arrows earlier in the clearing and him unable to do anything about it, he jumped into the icy river and dove under.

He had to find him. It was not going to end like this, not after Geralt had saved first him and then three of his kind. He was not going to let him drown, not without ever repaying that debt.

Iorveth dove deep, keeping his eyes open, trying to make out anything in the dark and then, when his lungs were burning and he felt his sight grow fuzzy, he saw it, a shimmer of white hair, only a few feet away from him, half hidden by rocks.

With the last of his strength, he grabbed a hold of the hair and then an arm and pushed away from the rock with his feet, catapulting himself and Geralt up towards the surface. When his face hit the cold night air, he gasped loudly and his ears popped, but the Witcher showed no sign of change, face deadly pale in the moonlight, eyes closed. Thinned out blood matted his hair and skull.

"Don't die now, Gwynbleidd" Iorveth cursed, carrying Geralt towards one of the flatter rocks and pulling him roughly onto the uneven surface. He knelt beside him. "Don't do this to me." He wasn't sure why he said that last part. He only knew that if Geralt died like this of all things, he would never be able to forgive himself. With both hands pressed over each other, he began pumping Geralt's upper body over the heart, again and again, waiting for a sign of life.

Nothing.

"Come on" he whispered, pressing harder until he was sure Geralt's ribs were cracking under his ministrations. In a last, desperate attempt, he pulled the Witcher's chin upwards, closed off his nostril and placed his lips on those of Geralt, breathing used air into the other's lungs. Geralt's lips were cold and tasted of the briny Pontar water and when he had finished he started massaging the heart again.

Unbidden, he remembered the way Geralt had said his name in the belly of the ship, the weird way he shaped the syllables. Would the Witcher feel the same way about Iorveth's way of pronouncing his name?

He breathed for Geralt again, once, twice. Cold all around him.

Would Geralt notice if he used his name? He couldn't remember having used it before. It felt too close, as if they were partners or friends instead of enemies briefly working together.

Push down. Push down. Push down. Lips together.

Iorveth imagined it wasn't air but pure, powerful life that he breathed into the Witcher. But at last he sat back on his hunches, arms shaking from exertion. It was over. He had nothing left to give. "I'm sorry, Geralt."

The Witcher suddenly heaved a wet cough, turned on his side and spit out a huge amount of river water, retching up bile, then more water.

Iorveth stared at him. He felt as if a grave had opened before him and a corpse crawled out of it. It took Geralt a few minutes until he wasn't coughing anymore and strong enough to sit up. Iorveth helped him, even though he did not feel much stronger himself. His hand, forgotten with all the adrenaline in his veins, now hurt abominably and his teeth were clattering from the cold.

"You said my name."

Iorveth looked back to Geralt, who was watching him carefully. His voice has only a hoarse whisper. "So?" he answered.

"That was the first time. You usually call me Gwynbleidd or Vatt'ghern."

"I don't know what you mean, Gwynbleidd."

Geralt huffed a dry laugh that erupted into another coughing fit and Iorveth had to fight hard to contain his own grin. "We made it", Geralt said, nodding towards the horizon, where the prison barge was slowly making its way towards them.

"Yes", Iorveth agreed. When he looked up, he could just make out the elven women that had swum to the ship earlier and were now huddled on the deck. It made him remember all those who should have joined them there. Alive and safe, not dead and alone in the forest. "Some of us did."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt tries to take care of Iorveth. Iorveth doesn't like it.

After having nearly drowned, Geralt decided being coddled was not to his liking. While Iorveth went below deck immediately after returning to the ship and giving two Scoia’tael orders to sail for Aedirn, Geralt was ushered to the prow of the ship by a panicked Dandelion and wrapped into multiple blankets.

“You almost died!” Dandelion exclaimed, pacing the deck.

“It happens more often than you’d think.”

“You almost died, and where would that have left me?” the bard continued. “Alone amidst a group of killers, without any protection. I am too young to die!”

“So that’s what you’re worried about …” Zoltan chimed in. His face looked grave, despite the grin. “Bull’s bollocks, for once Dandelion’s right, Geralt. If Iorveth hadn’t jumped after you like a siren rescuing her drowning lover, you’d not sit in front of us right now.”

“I get it. I almost died, you were worried” Geralt said. “But I survived. Now please get these blankets off me.”

“Iorveth _did_ save your life, didn’t he” Dandelion said, suddenly somber. “I thought after your botched trap he’d sooner kill you himself.”

“That elf’s dangerous, Geralt” Zoltan agreed. “Don’t trust him. The moment you aren’t of use anymore, he’ll drop you like his least favorite shit in the morning.”

Geralt stared at the trapdoor that led into the belly of the ship where the proud Aen Seidhe had vanished. “Maybe you’re right” he said, but even to his own ears he sounded unconvinced.

 

* * *

 

It was night by the time Dandelion was sufficiently convinced that Geralt was not going to suddenly fall over and die and let him retire to his room. In front of the door, Geralt hesitated, then turned around and went to another cabin he knew had been reserved for Iorveth. Outside, he stood still, listening for the sound of snoring or the shift of a sleeping body, but all that reached his ears was deadly quiet.

Guessing the elf was still awake, he knocked.

Soft soles shuffled over rough wooden floor. The door opened, revealing Iorveth, who let his eyes roam over Geralt before he stepped aside to let him in. The Witcher hesitated, unsure why he had even come, or why Iorveth was indulging him. After an annoyed glance from the elf, he entered the low room and stood awkwardly, waiting. The elf simply closed the door, went back to his bed and sat down, the injured hand cradled to his belly. Blood was seeping through the makeshift bandages Geralt had applied hours ago. Irritated, he pulled up a chair and sat down in front of Iorveth.

“What’s this?” he asked, nodding at the dirty linen.

“I believe it is called a bandage, though you Dh’oine might have another word for it I am unfamiliar with” Iorveth replied dryly.

Geralt grit his teeth. “You know what I mean. Why didn’t you let Dandelion take care of it? Is one finger not enough, must you lose the rest of your hand to infection as well?”

“I’d sooner lose it than let someone like Dandelion touch it” Iorveth spat, fisting his healthy fingers into the soft fabric of his trousers. Geralt suddenly realized that the elf was not wearing his usual green armored skirt, but simple trousers and a beige cotton shift. Apart from a dagger sheathed to his chest, his weapons lay at the other end of the room. For a man like him, that meant he was basically naked.

Gently Geralt took his injured hand and began peeling away the stained bandages. He half expected the hand to be ripped way, but Iorveth showed no sign of protest.

“You should give him a chance” Geralt said, cleaning his hands liberally with alcohol, then doing the same to a needle and some thread he kept in his pack at all times. “Dandelion is much braver than people give him credit for, and even more loyal. If you weren’t so quick to judge him by how he looks, maybe you’d see that.”

“I didn’t know you were a philosopher, Gwynbleidd.”

Geralt poured more alcohol over the open wound. He noticed that Iorveth was looking to the side, trying not to see his missing finger. “Look at it” Geralt said. The elf shot him a glare. “It’s better you get used to the sight. Let it remind you of what you survived.”

“And of who was responsible for making me almost die, or should I conveniently forget that part?”

Geralt stopped in his work. He looked up at Iorveth. “I am sorry” he said. “Had you not trusted me, none of this would have happened, that is true. All I can say is that I never intended for things to turn out the way they did. I hope you know this.”

Iorveth scoffed. “Why do you think I haven’t killed you yet?”

Suddenly Geralt realized how close their faces had come. He swallowed, pulse quickening. His heightened hearing picked up a struggle in Iorveth's breathing he was desperately trying to hide. Whatever it was that Geralt felt at the sight of this proud elfen leader, it seemed he wasn't the only one affected. Before he could do anything, like risking his head by kissing him maybe, Iorveth pulled back and stared to the side, pain flaring in his eyes.

Silence settled around them, thick like a woolen blanket, while Geralt started sewing Iorveth’s wound closed again, the awkwardness from before quickly replaced with concentration. It was difficult work; the soldiers had cut off the whole of the finger, leaving barely any skin to cover the wound. Geralt made do though, finally drenching more linen in alcohol, placing it on top and tying it all together with another thick bandage.

When he was done, he stood up. “Go to sleep.”

Iorveth laughed quietly, lay down on the bed and turned his back to him. “There is no sleep for me tonight.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning dawned pink and flush like ripe peaches. At least, that’s how Dandelion described it to Geralt, who was more interested in the speed of the ship and Iorveth, who looked indeed like he had not taken one second of rest and walked around the deck like death on legs.

“Why is he here?” Geralt complained to the bard, making sure to stay out of earshot from the elf. “He will never recover before we reach Aedirn if he keeps pushing himself.”

“It shows once again that there is not one romantic bone in your body, Geralt” the bard chided him. He leaned against the railing, looking over to Iorveth. “He lost a finger and his whole Scoia’tael commando in one day, very nearly his own life as well, if you hadn’t shown up. Which is probably another reason for his sour mood.” Dandelion sighed. “Do you think she is beautiful, this Dragon Slayer of Aedirn?”

“She’s a farmer’s girl” Geralt supplied, uninterested in this turn of conversation. “She might be beautiful, she might be ugly, who cares? The people follow her, which is all that matters.”

Dandelion nodded thoughtfully. “Too bad Henselt will bury Vergen beneath his forces. Why must we always choose the losing side?”

Geralt frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“The _war_ , Geralt. I know you are not interested in politics, but if we’re going to participate in one, you might want to pay attention.”

The Witcher finally let his gaze wander away from Iorveth and to Dandelion, who was smugly trimming his nails, a habit he took very seriously for musical purposes. “Tell me all you heard.”

By the end of Dandelion’s report, Geralt knew he had landed himself in big trouble. The direction of Aedirn, which the elfs had conveniently also chosen as their destination, was home to the town of Vergen, a crazy experiment of humans and non-humans living together in harmony, led by Saskia the Dragon Slayer, a woman Iorveth and his Scoia’tael had apparently long since sworn their allegiance to. The war brewing in the Pontar Valley was going to be the final battle for freedom and justice, a war which Geralt was suddenly very much aware he couldn’t avoid. If Letho had travelled to Aedirn to kill Kaedwen’s King Henselt, then Geralt was caught between two fronts, and with Iorveth as the commander of the vessel, his destination was clear.

He would need to bargain with Saskia, maybe fight on her side in the war to get her support in finding Triss. He could set out alone, of course, but in unfamiliar terrain, with armies on either side, his chances of success were slim.

“I need to speak to you.” The familiar voice jolted Geralt from his musings. He turned around to find Iorveth standing behind him with his arms folded over his chest. Dandelion quickly busied himself elsewhere and left the two alone.

“What about?”Geralt asked.

“There is a group of Scoia’tael stationed in a forest close to us. We will make halt there by nightfall and seek contact with their leader, Cáerme. She took command a few years back when we decided to divide our forces. I want to recruit her before we reach Vergen, just in case.”

Geralt shrugged. “Do what you must. How long will this detour take?”

“I expect us to be back the next evening. That is, if you agree to come with me.”

Startled into silence, Geralt let his folded arms fall to his sides. “Why would you want me with you?”

“There is a complication, one I’m not sure you’re aware of” Iorveth said and leaned against the railing, letting his head fall back. “When Letho asked for my help some four months ago, it turned out he was not acting alone. There are others Witchers helping him. The two I know of go by the names of Serrit and Auckes. Before Letho betrayed me, they were sent to Aedirn ahead of him. As I was not aware of their … true motivations at the time, I supplied them with knowledge of other Scoia’tael units, just in case they needed help. One of them was Cáerme’s group.”

Geralt huffed a laugh. “More kingkillers. Wonderful. Anything else I should be _aware_ of?”

Iorveth’s eye narrowed. “I’m giving you a chance to get in contact with one of the men working together with your target. Take it or leave it.”

“Are you sure you don’t just want a bodyguard?”

“Careful, Gwynbleidd” the elf hissed at him.

Geralt lifted his hands in surrender. “What about Saskia?” he asked instead. “You seem to be quite taken with her, if you go to such lengths to support her cause, her being a Dh’oine no less.”

Iorveth’s gaze softened. “She is like no Dh’oine you have ever met, Gwynbleidd. There is no head more worthy of a crown, and I will die before I see her defeated. If people like her ruled the North, my kind would not be living in ghettos and no Socia’tael would roam the forests. There would be peace.”

“Peace” Geralt said quietly, turning around to stare into the dark water churning against the ship’s hull. “If it exists, I have never known it.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Iorveth meet Cáerme.

They dropped anchor in the evening. Iorveth felt less drained knowing he was going to meet an old friend again and being secure in the knowledge that Geralt would be by his side. He didn’t doubt that Cáerme and her Scoia’tael could take down Letho’s lackeys if they had to, but he had seen the White Wolf fight and knew that Witchers did not go down easily. There had been enough bloodshed to last him a lifetime. If he could save even one elf by asking Geralt for help, he would do it.

The loss of his finger plagued him greatly, though. Now that their course was set and his feet stood once again on solid earth, there was another sensation in his hand though. He could feel his missing finger prickling as if infested with ants. At first, he had been able to ignore the sensation, focus on the future, on getting to Saskia as quickly as possible. On their track through the Aedirnian forest towards his meeting place with Cáerme, he caught himself trying to scratch the missing digit, only to touch air. It was infuriating, even more so because he knew that Geralt noticed each time, yet said nothing, likely wanting to protect Iorveth’s pride, which made it worse. Some moments the Witcher seemed an old friend he could trust, other times his distaste for Iorveth’s methods rose to the surface like scum on a churning river.

They travelled in silence. It took them the better part of the night to reach their destination. Soft moonlight fell through the treetops like waterfalls of silver and to Iorveth’s trained ear, the soft patter of fox paws and the scratching of squirrels in the branches was like music. He missed his flute, the instrument still lying by the great oak in Flotsam’s forest.

“I really like it.”

Iorveth turned his head to the Witcher, who was walking a few paces behind him.

“Like what?”

“That melody. The one you played back when we first met.”

Iorveth felt a shiver run down his spine. Could Geralt read his mind? “What makes you mention that now?”

Geralt smiled slyly, walking past him and parting a cluster of branches, holding them up for Iorveth to walk through. “You were humming.”

Blood rushed to Iorveth's head. How could he have been so careless? "I didn't —"

He stopped abruptly, tilting his head to make out the sound of footsteps that were inching closer through the thick undergrowth. "Cáerme?" he called out. Geralt too had stopped walking, turning slowly in a circle, right hand already caressing the hilt of his sword.

An arrow whirred through the air and embedded itself a few inches in front of Iorveth's foot. The elf looked up, following the angle of the weapon to the likely origin. A young man sat in the branches, bow lying over his dangling legs. Next to him stood a tall elfen woman, dark brown hair braided in intricate designs and falling over her shoulders.

Cáerme looked like she had years ago, except that she now regarded him with a grim face instead of a smug smile. Iorveth held up a hand in greeting. "Ceádmil, Cáerme."

She stared down at them passively. "Glaeddyvan vort, Gwynbleidd."

Iorveth looked to Geralt, who had indeed gripped the hilt of his sword tighter. "Do what she says" he snarled, waiting until Geralt had let go before looking back to her. "Cáerme, I bring grave news. The Flotsam Scoia'tael have been slaughtered and your unit is in danger. Come down so we can speak."

"Not while this Dh'oine is by your side."

"He is a friend."

"Not mine."

Geralt looked to Iorveth, one eyebrow raised. The elf ground his teeth. "There are good reasons for his being here. You may not trust him, but trust me."

Cáerme hissed, the young man next to her touching her arm and whispering something in elder speech. It took Iorveth a moment to realize why the boy looked weird. It was his ears.

They were rounded.

"What is a Dh'oine doing at _your_ side?" he called up. Cáerme turned towards him.

"Theo is ours" she stated simply. "He bought his place in my ranks with blood and pain. If you would harm him, you must first kill _me_."

"So she's allowed to have a pet human but not you?" Geralt murmured, leaning towards him with folded arms. "Seems a bit unfair, don't you think?"

"Thaess aep" Cáerme spat and finally jumped down from the tree, followed by the human. "Your words mean nothing to me, Vatt'ghern." She turned again on Iorveth. "Why is he here?"

"I owe him a life debt" Iorveth said, feeling grim satisfaction at Cáerme's sudden change in expression. Her manner calmed, her eyes became hooded.

"A grave thing." Her gaze travelled to Theo. "I too know the bindings of such a debt. Speak then."

While Iorveth relayed the events in Flotsam and Letho's betrayal, he watched out of the corner of his eye how Geralt's muscles tensed in regular intervals, as if the Witcher was uncertain whether he should stand still or fight. Only when Geralt's eyes found his and he mouthed a word at him, did Iorveth understand.

They were not alone.

Iorveth glanced around, trying to make out a figure in the dense treetops, but he didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Càerme, sensing his split attention, fell silent and gave Theo a quick command.

Suddenly, a whistle sounded, followed by the thud of footfalls and a grunt. The elf turned around just in time to see a hooded man with twin swords jumping backwards, and Geralt, sword drawn in front of him, blood bubbling from a deep cut over his cheekbone.

Iorveth drew his sword, while Cáerme grabbed a finely decorated dagger from her thigh and Theo notched two arrows to fire in quick succession. The other Witcher, who Iorveth identified after a second as Serrit, evaded easily, taking a step to the left, a half turn to the right and throwing himself back into the fight, casting some sign that made his body glow in a dizzy white light.

Geralt walked in a circle around him, giving Iorveth room to fight, then rolled forward to come up behind Serrit, who ducked his slash and blasted at Geralt with a fire spell that the other Witcher countered with his own. The fire explosion blew both fighters backwards. Theo's third arrow narrowly missed Serrit, but held his attention long enough for Càerme to be over him in a flash and slash at his face. Serrit rolled away and jumped back onto his feet, lifting both curved weapons defensively. Iorveth made ready to attack, but just then Letho's lackey let something fall and thick, grey smoke enveloped him. Geralt formed a sign with his fingers, blasting the smoke away, but their target had already fled.

"Seems he didn't like his chances" Càerme said, putting away her dagger. "That would explain the danger you have been speaking of, Iorveth."

Her human Scoia'tael still held his bow at readiness, glancing around nervously. "Why did he even attack?" he wondered aloud. "He was outnumbered." His voice was still somewhat high-pitched. Iorveth narrowed his eyes. How young was this boy?

"He tried to surprise us" Geralt said, flicking away the blood that was dripping down his cheek and giving Iorveth a long look. "And he almost succeeded."

Iorveth didn't like the sound of that. "What do you mean?"

"I wasn't his target" the Witcher explained, " _you_ were. I simply managed to block his attack before he got to you. Probably had orders to kill the last hope of the Scoia'tael, or however they call you these days."

Iorveth stared at him, at the wound on his face.

Again. He had been saved again. After saving Geralt from drowning, he had thought their debt mostly repaid. Now there was anger and shame rising in him like a tide at full moon. And something else as well. A longing to put Geralt beneath him. Regain control over the situation, balance everything out.

"If you want to say thank you, do it in a way that doesn't stab me" the Witcher said flatly.

Cáerme came forward, studying them. "A grave thing indeed" she repeated her words from earlier. "Ceádmil, Vatt'ghern. While you are here, be welcome."

 

* * *

 

After the Scoia'tael woman stopped treating Geralt like a rattle snake, the Witcher found her to be of a singularly strong will and surprising humor. Serrit's attack had done wonders in bringing Iorveth's point across. Cáerme agreed to collect the rest of the Scoia'tael in the surrounding areas and travel to Vergen as soon as possible to fight in the war.

Geralt could sense Iorveth's impatience. He wanted his fighters following him immediately, or barring that, to come with Cáerme while she searched for the remaining units, but they both knew it was folly. Saskia needed them to reach her as soon as possible. Even a dozen archers, one dwarf and one Witcher would help greatly in strengthening her army, but more than their pure muscle, they provided hope, the knowledge that more support was on its way and Vergen not forgotten.

As Iorveth had predicted, they returned to the barge by nightfall. Geralt's face felt crusty with blood, but he was otherwise unharmed. Iorveth pretended the same, but the Witcher could hear every hitched breath.

"Let me change your bandages" he said when the barge had picked up speed again and Iorveth made for the trap door to retire for the night.

"I can do it myself" the elf snarled without looking at him.

"Like you did yesterday?"

Iorveth turned around, quick as lightning, and pressed the index finger of his healthy hand into Geralt's breastbone. "I warn you, Gwynbleidd. I am not your dog to be tamed and trained. This is _my_ ship,  _I'm_ the leader of this mission, and you would do well to remember it."

Geralt grabbed his wrist, pulling Iorveth closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. "I will remember it while I change the bandages, _my leader_."

Iorveth did the most un-iorveth thing imaginable. He blushed. Hastily, he ripped his hand free. "Don't call me that" he said and went down. Since it was the only part of his statement Iorveth had taken issue with, Geralt followed him below and into the elf's room.

There was a decidedly musky and metallic smell inside, only tinged by the typical scents of leather, oil and herbs. Geralt took up his usual position on the chair in front of the bed, disinfecting his hands and lower arms, while Iorveth took off his belt and shoes and peeled off the bandage. Some of the linen had dried into the wound and Geralt had to pry it off carefully by soaking the cloth in more alcohol.

Iorveth showed no sign of pain, but his breathing became shallower as Geralt leaned closer to work on the injured hand. A tingle filled Geralt's belly as his fingers worked carefully over the callused skin. There was a hitch, a quickening of heart rate.

"If you have something to say, say it" Geralt murmured without looking up.

"Why do you care?"

First, Geralt thought it was meant in anger, but when he met the elf's gaze, he realized Iorveth was deadly serious.

"You saved my life" he said after some deliberation. "And I feel responsible for what happened. Does that answer your question?"

"No."

"It's the truth."

"Not all of it" Iorveth said. "In Wyzima you helped Yaevinn. Now you help me. Why?"

Geralt let Iorveth's hand fall onto his thigh, carefully massaging the remaining fingers. There was a twitch, but the elf did not pull back. "I am friends with many non-humans" Geralt said finally. "At least, that's what I'm told. I don't remember most of them. The non-humans in Wyzima were the first I met after my amnesia. They lived in ghettos, discriminated and ostracized like criminals. Both sides did horrible things during that rebellion. But one side did it out of fear of the unknown and lust for power, the other out of desperation and survival. Even the gentlest dog will bite if you push it too far."

Iorveth snorted. "Are you calling the Scoia'tael dogs?"

"Dogs I'm apparently not allowed to tame or train" Geralt quipped, smiling when Iorveth gave a soft laugh. "Siegfried was a good guy though. I didn't want to kill him."

The hand in his grasp relaxed a bit. "Siegfried. Order of the Flaming Rose, I take it. Did you bed him?"

Geralt's head shot up. Iorveth had leaned closer, until they were face to face.

"I didn't" Geralt said simply.

"Why?"

"Not my type."

"How so?"

Iorveth's deadly serious face made Geralt smile. "Guess I prefer long hair."

"Yaevinn was more your type then?"

"Gods, no." Geralt shook himself. "He was a prick."

"Like me?"

"You are more of an arrogant asshole than a prick."

Iorveth smiled smugly. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Geralt put down Iorveth's freshly bandaged hand. "Is there a point to the direction of this conversation or are you just trying to find out if you are my type?"

"You tell me. _You_ demanded entry into my room."

The Witcher sighed. Iorveth looked at him with a weird mixture of wariness and amusement.

"Are you done?" Iorveth asked abruptly, which Geralt took as his cue to leave. At the door, he turned around one last time. The elf was still looking at his hand. Geralt had the weirdest feeling, as if their conversation had simply been a dream, as if this new side of Iorveth would vanish come morning. He needed to preserve something of it, shock Iorveth out his self-imposed misery.

"I don't remember it, but apparently I was in love with a sorceress called Yennefer" he said, waiting until Iorveth looked up to him. "She was callous, powerful, with hidden depth and a strong protective streak. From what I've heard about her character, it seems arrogant assholes are exactly my type."

Iorveth stared at him. Then he laughed. An actual laugh, throaty and unselfconscious. "Good night, Gwynbleidd. Rest while you still can. Tomorrow we reach Vergen, and I fear there will not be much sleep to be had once the war begins."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group arrives in Vergen. Geralt and Iorveth attend Saskia's war council.

Iorveth awoke the next morning as if from a fever dream. He remembered Geralt's rough hands on his skin, the warmth of his breath, the dilated cat pupils looking up into his. He remembered flirting with the man.

Remembered Geralt admitting he found Iorveth attractive.

It felt too unreal, and yet the fresh bandage on his finger said otherwise. Stretching and cracking his spine, Iorveth got up, dressed and went above deck. It was not yet noon, the sun standing just shy of its zenith. Geralt was nowhere to be seen, for which Iorveth was grateful. He had no idea how to confront the Witcher after last night's conversation.

"Long hair, huh?" Iorveth murmured, carefully touching his own dark locks. Curtsey of his bandanna, they were never visible, always braided back and hidden beneath red cloth. When his fingers touched the bandanna, unbidden images assaulted him, reminding him of the hideous scar the scarf hid. And worse, that Geralt had seen him bare. His fingers brushed over the skin on his cheek, the raised scar running down to his mouth. Long hair that was hidden and a scarred face to top it off. Surely Geralt had played with him. There was no way a man that took his pick from the most beautiful woman in the North would glance at Iorveth twice, not to mention he had never heard of a single story in which the Witcher was said to lie down with another man.

When he had broached the subject yesterday out of ill-advised curiosity, Geralt seemed not to have taken issue with the concept, but it still seemed more of an anomaly for him.

He turned around, intent on finding Enril and Illain, the two elfs that had taken command of the barge, when he found himself face to face with Dandelion. The bard looked at him in fear, practically shaking in his boots, but instead of stepping aside, he stood his ground. "Good morning" he greeted Iorveth. "Have you seen Geralt?"

"He's in his room" Iorveth said. "Go look for him if you're worried."

"And have you been in his room as well?" Dandelion shrunk, as if expecting a hit, but Iorveth simply stared.

"I have my own room."

"Oh, please, don't play dumb with me. I can smell Geralt's pheromones from a mile away and ever since we set sail, he's all over you."

"You can smell his pheromones?" Iorveth asked, stupefied. What has he talking about?

"Not _literally_ , of course" Dandelion said, "but I've known Geralt for a long time and I know how he acts when he's interested in someone. Do I need to spell it out for you? Are you guys fucking?"

"We're not" Iorveth hissed, pushing past Dandelion, who stubbornly followed him across the deck.

"But you will" the bard insisted. "I'm not going to tell you not to break his heart, because we both know it will more likely be the other way around, but if you hurt him or betray him, I will personally come after you and end you."

Iorveth slowly turned around. The bard stood waiting, probably terrified of Iorveth's reaction, yet he had not backed off. The elf remembered Geralt's words from the first night on the barge. _Dandelion is much braver than people give him credit for, and even more loyal._

"I understand" he simply said, waving Dandelion away. "Now leave."

The bard scurried away and left Iorveth alone, contemplating. So Geralt was interested in him after all. The question was, should he act on this knowledge?

"Vergen!" came Enril's cry from the crow's nest. "She's in sight! Make ready for landing!"

 

* * *

 

When Geralt fell into bed in Vergen's best and only inn, he breathed a sigh of relief. Their arrival in the besieged city could not have gone worse. First, Iorveth was met with scorn and fear by Geralt’s old friend Yarpen and the other dwarfs sent to guard the foothills, then a magical mist spread and the dead rose from the ground. Under the protective spell of the sorceress Philippa Eilhart, they fought their way back to Vergen through hordes of undead, nearly dying in the process. And when they finally passed the gate into the mountain city, Geralt was informed of a strategic meeting he should take part in come next morning.

It was all too much politics and curses and general chaos in one day, worse because he had heard no sign of somebody fitting Triss' description. His guilt over leaving her to Letho, which had dulled during his rescue of Iorveth and the days after, came over him again like a black cloud and he felt himself slipping into a darkening mood. He had not even found the energy to argue with Iorveth about his bandages, which he had found quite invigorating yesterday.

Best not to dwell on that particular incident though. Nothing would come of it. If Iorveth showed any sign of interest was irrelevant, so long as the elf's spine stood to rigid to allow him even a small amount of respite and happiness. So that left Geralt with an old friend in unknown danger and a new friend already lost to him.

And war meetings. Oh, how he hated them.

 

* * *

 

Saskia was everything Iorveth had promised, and more. Standing tall, proud and compassionate, she commanded the small war council in the Castle of the Three Fathers like a queen born to rule.

"Henselt leads five thousand, five to one against us. What think you of that?" Her voice was strong, passionate. Geralt found himself relaxing while her council answered. Maybe if _she_ ruled, the war was not lost after all.

It was when Yarpen spoke about the need of arbalists that Geralt truly understood her cunning. Without anyone noticing, she had steered their conversation over their disadvantage in men count over to their lack of archers, and from there, to the perfect moment to introduce her newest weapon.

"We have something better" she said, as predicted. "Iorveth's elfs. Scoia'tael." The doors behind her swung open. Iorveth stepped in, confident, coming to a halt one step behind her like a bodyguard with his chin lifted high and arms crossed.

"I bring the best archers in the North, Dragonslayer" he said, silencing all exclamations of _murderer_ in a heartbeat. "They are yours to command, and a hundred more will come. We await your orders."

As the voices calmed down and topics returned to strategy, Geralt sought out Iorveth's gaze. The elf stood still behind Saskia like a statue, but when he noticed Geralt, he threw him a small grin.

Suddenly Saskia's voice carried through the hall again. "The Scoia'tael know no peace" she said, looking from the Aedirnian prince called Stennis over to the other council members. "They died for Nilfgaard, for the Valley of the Flowers—in vain. They've been betrayed and cheated, but now they have a new goal. The Pontar Valley could be the first state where no man has to fear elven arrows when venturing beyond the city walls. And elfs and dwarfs wouldn't live in ghettos or on reservations. First, however, we have a battle to win! You know who we're up against. It's a splendid army, brave and well led. They cannot be scared off or routed, they have to be killed. I want Iorveth to sit at the same table as we do. I want him to kill Kaedweni for us. And I assure you, he will do so with a smile, if only you let him."

It was a good speech, heartfelt and painting Iorveth as more man than monster. It did not take long for the last skeptics to vote for Iorveth's staying. Under Zoltan's cheering, Saskia came forward, picking up her cup of wine and toasting her council. A few seconds later, she gave a wheeze and went to her knees, frothing at the mouth.

"Saskia!" Iorveth was beside her in an instant, only to be pushed away by Philippa, who quickly spoke a spell over a concoction in her hand and made Saskia drink it under much thrashing.

Geralt ran forward, watching in horror the pallor that fell over Saskia's rosy face. "Poison" Philippa snarled. "We need to get her somewhere safe. I need more ingredients. Guard her with your lives!"

Yarpen and Zoltan quickly organized for a litter on which the Dragonslayer was heaved and carried from the hall. Iorveth never left her side, and neither did Geralt, who followed the procession, keeping an eye out for any suspicious behavior. Only when Saskia lay in a vacant house, with Philippa tending to her, did Iorveth stop pacing and slumped against a small wall.

"If she dies" he said, as if in great pain, "all will be over."

"She will not die" Geralt said, trying to force confidence into his voice. "Philippa is a powerful sorceress. She knew about the blood curse, surely she'll know how to counteract the poison."

 The Sorceress in question came out some hours later, sweaty and with a grim expression. "She lives, for now" she explained. "I slowed down her life functions. Hopefully it will give us time to gather the ingredients for an antidote. I will need your help, Geralt. They are not easy to find."

Geralt listened gravely to her descriptions of magical artifacts, royal blood, and other exotic ingredients. He felt bad, but all the time he kept thinking: _I will never find time to search for Triss._ Only the last ingredient piqued his interest.

 _The Rose of Remembrance_. "Triss has one" he said. "She took one from the garden in the Flotsam forest. We'll need to find her if we want Saskia to survive."

"I will help you search, Gwynbleidd" Iorveth said, already staring off into the distance. "Saskia will not die while there is still breath left in my body."

 

* * *

 

After the confusion and tragic events that day, Iorveth went to organize his remaining Scoia’tael to help in different duties around the city, set up a guarding system for Saskia and distributed the residences in the now so-called Scoia’tael quarter, a rubble of empty houses on the outskirts of Vergen. Iorevth had heard the name butcher’s quarter thrown around quite frequently ever since news of their new living quarters became public knowledge, but he didn’t care. Everything since Saskia’s poisoning seemed to have dulled. The only bright side this day had been Geralt’s unending support, never questioning Iorveth’s need to stay with Saskia well after Philippa had given them their news, even visiting the local towns people the very same day to find out more about the magical artefacts the sorceress had spoken about.

As dark fell, Iorveth’s mind was running circles. He needed something, anything to take his mind of things, to refocus him, but there was nothing. The elfs he was travelling with regarded him more a savior now then a leader or even a friend, and Ciaran, his second in command, was dead.

Iorveth sat down heavily in front of the roaring fireplace in his rooms, the biggest of them all, but also the darkest and filthiest. Ciaran was gone. Iorveth would never listen to his council again, laugh at one of his dumb jokes, or share his warmth on a cold night. The times when they had shared a bed were long gone, but the comfort and trust stayed to the day that his friend was betrayed and send onto the barge to be tortured and ultimately killed.

Thinking about Ciaran was not helping him let go of his worries for Saskia though. Iorveth stared into the fire, eyes too dry to cry. He needed a release, something strong that centered him back into reality, before he truly slipped away.

The door banged open. In trotted Geralt, drenched, white hair plastered to his skull. With a sound of disgust, he threw down his swords, took off his shoes and came over to a dumbfounded Iorveth.

“What are you doing here?” Iorveth demanded.

“Checking on your wound. Might have to pull the stitches soon, and I assume you didn’t change the bandages yesterday.”

Iorveth ground his teeth. He had not, in fact, changed the bandages. “Be about it, then” he huffed and held out his hand.

Geralt sat down in front of him, starting his usual cleansing ritual.

“Wouldn’t you rather drink it instead of washing your arms with it?” Iorveth asked as Geralt emptied one battle and popped open the next one.

The Witcher peered up at him through dripping wet hair. “This stuff is undrinkable. I use it for potions. You’re welcome to take a sip though.”

The surprise on Geralt’s face as Iorveth did exactly that tasted sweet. Not so the alcohol. It burned like fire, and tasted metallic and utterly disgusting. Iorveth spit it on the floor and Geralt grinned. “Told you.”

The pull on his flesh as Geralt inspected the stitches felt good, though he decided that they needed another few days. As he gently started redressing the wound however, Iorveth felt his impatience rise to the surface again.

“Stop that” he snarled.

Geralt looked up at him. “Stop what?”

“Stop being so gentle, it’s irritating. Just get it over with.”

“I can do both, you know?”

“Just stop being so nice, Geralt!”

The Witcher froze, staring at him. Iorveth looked back, horrified. He had started thinking about Geralt with his name so long ago, the word had simply fallen out of his mouth.

Geralt let go of the finished hand, frowning. “If you don’t want me to be gentle and nice, what do you want from me? Should I treat you like a piece of shit instead, hurt you, cut you open? Cause I can do all that if it helps you wallow in your misery.”

It was spoken in anger and jest, and yet Iorveth suddenly had a very vivid picture in front of his eyes. He wasn’t ready for all its contents yet, but some of them … He licked his lips.

“Gwynbleidd” he said, being careful not to use the other’s name again so carelessly. “Take off your belt.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth regains control. Geralt likes it.

Geralt closed his mouth, deciding what he had wanted to say next could wait. “This is a bit sudden.”

“Don’t be stupid” Iorveth said, standing up and shrugging off his west and shirt. “I don’t want your cock. Just your belt.”

Geralt stared at Iorveth, the intricate leaf tattoos ghosting over his neck and left shoulder all the way down to his hips and vanishing beneath the seam of his trousers. He tried to take in the meaning of his words. This was not what he had expected when coming here. He was not going to deny he had hoped for _something_ to happen, but this was going into a decidedly unexpected direction.

Carefully, he stood up, taking off his belt. “What do you want me to do?”

“Hit me.”

“Ah.” Geralt looked at the belt, folding it in half, then looking back to Iorveth. “Why exactly?”

“Just do it, Gwynbleidd.”

“This will hurt.”

Iorveth rolled his eyes. “That is, I believe, the point. Now stop talking already, before I do it my—” The leather strap cut across Iorveth’s turned back, the slapping sound echoing through the open room. Hissing, Iorveth clenched his fists. “Again.”

Geralt hit him again, once across the shoulders, then over his lower back, once even on the back of his thighs, covered though as they were. After a few minutes, Iorveth was panting, and Geralt’s cock straining painfully against his breeches. “Done yet?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level and failing.

Iorveth was leaning forward slightly, figure shaking. “Keep going.”

Geralt did. He varied the strength of each hit, the intervals in between. Iorveth’s pants slowly turned to moans and finally to open-mouthed acceptance, until he seemed to fall into some kind of meditative state. After a while, Geralt stopped. He was panting hard himself, mostly from the exertion of hitting so often and with so much force. He hadn’t tried to seriously hurt the elf, but neither had he held back. Iorveth would have noticed.

The Scoia’tael leader slowly turned around to him. The restless look from earlier had vanished, replaced by composure and control, a combination that Geralt had not often seen from this up close, but found intensely attractive. He swallowed heavily. Iorveth’s gaze travelled over Geralt’s chest and then lowered to his crotch. A smirk spread across his face. “You’re hard, Gwynbleidd.”

“Keen observation” Geralt said. “What gave it away?”

Iorveth ignored him. “Is this how you would have me?” he asked. “On my knees, begging for your cock?”

Geralt licked his lips. They were too far gone now. No need to hold anything back. “Another time, perhaps” he said, watching Iorveth slightly deflate. “For today ...” he took Iorveth’s hand, guiding it towards the back of his neck and pressing down, until it was Geralt who was kneeling, “I much prefer you like this.”

Iorveth stood above him, silently grabbing a fistful of stark white hair. Slowly he drew Geralt’s head closer until his nose was flush against the other’s crotch. Geralt inhaled deeply, nuzzling against the hardness beneath the leather trousers. “If we do this” Iorveth murmured, pushing Geralt gently away, “we do it right. Name your limits.”

Geralt looked up at him. This was a conversation he had not had many times, most dalliances being too short for extravagant plays. “No crawling or leashes. No injuries that impact my ability to fight or that leave lasting damage. If I say _Ciri_ , you stop whatever you’re doing.”

“Is that all?”

“I’ll let you know if something else comes up. What about you?”

Iorveth looked at him, deeply in thought. “When I command you to kneel and you kneel, you accept my authority. You do what I say, you do not question it and you do not hesitate. You will not touch me without permission. You will not touch yourself or let others touch you without my permission. Do not call me master, sir or any other ridiculous term. If you need to address me, use my name.”

“Iorveth _._ ”

The elf smiled. “I’m glad you payed attention.” A shiver ran down Geralt’s spine at the look Iorveth gave him. Sharp like daggers, and scalding hot. “Now strip.”

 

* * *

 

Iorveth could barely believe his eyes as Geralt silently stood up, buckling off his armor and letting the items thud heavily to the floor. The Witcher’s eyes never left him as he slowly drew his shirt over his head, scarred muscles rippling with each movement. Iorveth’s mouth went dry.

Geralt let the shirt drop to the ground, pausing. Iorveth lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t believe you’re done.” The Witcher grinned and pushed down his trousers, stepping out of the pooled legs and kicking the garment aside. He stood before Iorveth, naked, hard and shivering under the scrutinizing gaze. Iorveth took him in with hungry eyes. It had been too long since he had done this, the life in the forest not exactly the most suited of places for such intimacy. His dalliances with Ciaran had stopped many years ago, and since then he had not let himself trust anyone enough to try again. He let his gaze roam over the exposed torso, littered with scars. Bite marks and slashes mostly, the trophies of a man still alive to tell their tale. It spoke of strength, of Geralt’s prowess in battle.

The Witcher had a great figure, broad in the shoulders and narrow in the waist. His cock stood amidst a nest of white coarse hair, already darkened slightly. It was thick, veins tracing the underside. Iorveth felt his desire boiling through his bones like quicksilver, making him _want want want_.

He waited, prolonging the time Geralt stood exposed in front of him. The Witcher’s hands twitched at his sides, obviously desperate to pull down the elf’s own trousers.

“Kneel” he commanded, watching as Geralt obediently went down in front of him, eyes fixed on Iorveth’s crotch. Iorveth smiled. He knew just how to play this. Carefully, he opened his belt, taking his time with the notches. Geralt’s breathing went heavy with lust, his pupils dilating until black filled the whole iris.

Iorveth caressed his cheek, pushing Geralt’s head back so that the Witcher stared up at him. “Open your mouth” he said, gripping tighter, pulling the head back until Geralt hissed and followed the command. “Stick out your tongue.”

The Witcher did. Infinitely slowly, Iorveth bent over Geralt, opened his own mouth and let a string of spittle trail into the Witcher’s mouth. Geralt’s eyes widened, but he didn’t buck or push him away, simply waited until the saliva met his tongue. Iorveth spat the rest into Geralt’s mouth, watching as the Witcher swallowed. He stroked his cheek gently, before slapping him hard across the face.

“You swallowed, Gwynbleidd.” He slapped him again, this time from the other side, feeling the sting of skin on skin. “Did I tell you to swallow?”

“No.”

He slapped him again. “Address me properly.”

“No, _Iorveth_.”

There it was again, the weirdly rounded sound of his name in the other’s mouth. Iorveth felt his hardness keenly, pressing against the rough fabric of his trousers. But he wasn’t done with Geralt yet.

“Be good this time. Open your mouth.” Geralt did, obediently waiting for Iorveth to spit on his tongue. There was something deeply empowering in commanding the arguably strongest man in the North and having him naked and hard on his knees. Even more so because Iorveth knew he was there willingly.

It felt glorious.

He spat his saliva into the Witcher’s mouth, watching it slowly run down his tongue. Geralt visibly struggled to fight his swallow reflex, but he managed it. Iorveth smiled, finally taking out his cock, stroking it a few times to full hardness and pushing Geralt down on it.

He watched in delirium as Geralt suckled his head, then licked the underside, pushing Iorveth’s own saliva against the velvety skin. Iorveth brushed through his hair, feeling his nerve endings lighting on fire as Geralt sucked him all the way down until his nose was pressed against Iorveth’s pelvis.

He must have made a strangled sound, because Geralt looked up to him, finding his eyes and grinning devilishly around the thick shaft parting his lips. It quickly became apparent that Iorveth’s earlier assumptions had been correct. Geralt was not used to giving head. He was rusty, unable to hold Iorveth down his throat for longer than a few seconds before he started to gag, though he made up for it with the expert lapping of his tongue. Iorveth quickly abandoned all plans of keeping quiet and moaned whenever Geralt’s tongue met the slit of his cock or the crown brushed his throat. He never took his eyes off the Witcher, who had not used his hands once this entire time, not even on himself, though Iorveth could see his fingers twitch. When his hand ghosted a bit too close to the pink and swollen cock, he kicked it to the side, grabbing Geralt’s hair harder and pulling him back down.

The pressure in his belly grew slowly and his balls tightened, before it exploded hot and urgent and filled Geralt’s mouth, who sucked Iorveth clean as well as he could. Iorveth slowly came down from his high, legs trembling. He looked down at Geralt, who in turn stared up at him, still painfully hard and leaking precum.

Iorveth couldn’t help but notice the twitch of Geralt’s adam’s apple. His fingers caressed the swollen lips, his thumb pressing inside to pry open Geralt’s mouth. His tongue was still coated by Iorveth’s cum.

“You didn’t swallow it” he said, surprised. “Here.” He held out his hand, waiting for Geralt to spit the cum and spit mixture into his palm. The Witcher wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You told me not to.”

Iorveth felt a swell of _something_ in his breast. He went to his knees before Geralt, grabbing him and pulling him into a searing kiss, their tongues swirling together, the salty and thick taste of Iorveth’s seed heavy in their mouths. Geralt surged against him like a man possessed while Iorveth took him in hand, smearing the cum around Geralt’s cock, pumping him hard. Geralt ripped himself free of their breathless kissing, pressing his forehead against Iorveth’s bare shoulder as he panted with each stroke.

He came quickly, already undone by blowing Iorveth earlier, his cum shooting over his belly and into Iorveth’s waiting hand.

Iorveth waited until Geralt had cooled down enough to appreciate how he licked his fingers clean one at a time.

“Say my name” the Witcher murmured, pressing their foreheads together. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Would that be one of the _other things_ you’ll let me know about when it comes up?”

“What if it were?”

“Just checking.” Iorveth brushed their noses together, breathing in the smell of Geralt’s sweat and the rain soaked skin from earlier. “You were so good, Geralt. But next time, we will take our time.”

“Next time?” Geralt inquired teasingly.

Iorveth leaned back smugly. “Unless you’d prefer not to have a repeat performance, of course, though I do think you enjoyed yourself.”

“Quite.” Geralt smiled, lifting a hand to lightly trace over Iorveth’s bandanna. The elf leaned back, pushing his hand aside.

“Leave it alone.”

“It was true what I said, you know. I like long hair.”

“You’ll have to make do with knowing it’s there.”

“Any way I could convince you to take it off next time?”

Iorveth knew he was trying to coax him into some sexual repayment, but in that moment it felt too close to Geralt wrestling back control over him. He had seen him bare on the barge already. Once was enough.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Gwynbleidd.”

At the sound of the elder speech, Geralt’s face fell. He stood up, gathering his discarded clothes and swords and pulling up his trousers. “Suit yourself then, _Aen Seidhe_.”

Iorveth cursed himself as Geralt left the hut without a backward glance. Quickly tucking himself back into his own trousers, he lay down on his makeshift bed and stared up at the dark wood ceiling, the only light in the room the slowly dying fire in the hearth.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A suspect for Saskia's poisening is found. Iorveth gives Geralt a hand.

For days, Iorveth saw neither hide nor hair from the Witcher. He knew of course that Geralt was busy on behalf of Saskia’s antidote, but the abandonment still stung, even more so because Iorveth had—maybe foolishly—expected to be part of the expeditions outside the city.

With nothing but idle time on his hands, Iorveth took stock of the city, its inhabitants, militia and defenses and got in the way of many an angry dwarf. Ally he may be, but the promise of his archers did nothing to erase years of bad reputation, most of it well earned.

But maybe it was for the best; for it was why he was at hand when a few days after their arrival all hell broke loose.

 

* * *

 

Geralt dragged himself down the stairs into the Cauldron, the deep gashes in his right thigh burning like fire now that his potions had worn off. Cursed harpies. He’d killed dozens of the beasts to sell their feathers to some well-paying if mysterious collector, had camped up in the mountains despite the never-ending rain, pacified a troll, found his runaway wife, slain nekkers, and found his first clue as to Triss’ whereabouts, which he had promptly delivered to Philippa.

Upon entering the inn, the strong aroma of unwashed bodies and ale hit him like a fist in the face. For once, he didn’t mind it, just limped in the direction of his room. That’s when he noticed the eerie quiet. The usually full tavern was empty save for some blabbering drunk in the corner and a sourly dwarf playing dice.

“Something happened?” he asked the innkeeper, who was cleaning dishes.

“Aye, up in the Castle.” He gestured behind himself in the general direction of the Castle of the Three Fathers. “Some servant says he knows who poisoned Saskia. The whole city is in uproar. They want the suspect dead, and not quickly either.”

Geralt sighed. With a rueful look towards his rooms, he turned and climbed back up the stairs. He needed to stop a certain elf from starting a bloodbath.

The Castle was indeed where the whole of Vergen’s populace seemed to have gathered. He had barely entered when a swarm of voices pushed against him. Farmers and peasants arguing with the nobility, dwarfs thrown in the mix, as well as Dandelion and Zoltan, whose voices Geralt heard even through the throng of people. He quickly made for them, snatching up pieces of conversation here and there.

_“He wants to sell us to Henselt—”_

_“You’re not in any position to question—”_

_“Saskia is good as dead ‘cause of him—”_

_“You can’t prove his guilt—”_

 “What’s going on here?” Geralt asked the moment he was close enough to Dandelion to be heard above the uproar.

“Geralt! It’s good to see you!”

“It’s Stennis” Zoltan explained, nodding behind him to a heavily guarded door. “Some servant says he’s the one that poisoned Saskia. Wouldn’t put it past the bastard myself. Never liked the prick.”

“What’s with your leg?” Dandelion asked, quickly picking up on the way Geralt leaned to the side.

“Got scratched up. What’s this about Henselt?”

“They think Stennis colluded with Henselt, selling Vergen to Kaedwen in exchange for being allowed to rule in Lower Aedirn. The peasants aren’t happy about it. They’d have his head on a stick already if not for Iorveth.”

Geralt expertly ignored Dandelion’s look as he said the elf’s name. “I thought he’d be the first to try and kill him” he said.

“And why would you think that?” The mocking voice sent shivers down Geralt’s neck and arms. Slowly he turned around, finding himself face to face with Iorveth. “I was here when the peasants charged in with their pitchforks and kitchen knives” he explained. “Did you think I’d join them?”

“I was prepared for that outcome” Geralt replied.

“I’m not a wild beast killing on assumptions. Unless Stennis is guilty, we need his help in defending Vergen.”

There was a certain edge to his voice that Geralt now noticed had slowly vanished during their time together on the barge and that memorable first night in Vergen. He swallowed thickly, turning once more towards the throng of people. Some of the commoners were escalating their arguments with the nobility into a screaming match. It would not be long before it came to blows and from there to all-out carnage.

“Any idea how to handle this?” he asked Iorveth, who had stepped up beside him, eyeing the fights.

“You’ll need to find out if the servant said the truth” Iorveth said after a moment. “His name is Willy Oblate. Apparently he was the one who served the wine. My Scoia’tael are guarding him outside. Speak with as many of the people as you can, but hurry. I can hold them back for a while, keep things under control, but you don’t have much time, that’s for sure.”

“Alright.” Geralt knew he should get going, but he hesitated. “Iorveth, about that night …”

“Which part of _you don’t have much time_ did you not understand?” The elf pushed his shoulder. “Go, before things turn ugly. We will speak later, Geralt.”

It was that last word that let Geralt leave. From inside he could hear Iorveth’s commanding voice, easily slipping back into the role of feared Scoia’tael leader, daring any who would like an arrow in their throat to step up.

Smiling, he trotted outside.

 

* * *

 

“What’s taking him so long?” Iorveth hissed, as he watched two of his Scoia’tael break up another squabble. They were becoming more frequent and it got harder and harder to maintain his aura of brutality. He had already threatened to kill everyone in the hall twice, but the longer they fought without him making good on his promise, the less weight it held. Two arrows had found their way into someone’s hand, one more into a foot, but some of the peasants started eyeing him as if contemplating how many arrows to various limbs they could take if only it meant a go at cutting Stennis open like a Sunday roast.

Geralt had left half an hour ago to speak with Willy. Iorveth had taken it upon himself to eavesdrop on Stennis. The snatches of conversation he had picked up on did not bode well for the prince’s innocence.

“It’s the Witcher!” someone called from the end of the hall. Iorveth perked up, stretching to see over the crushed bodies to the entry where Geralt was indeed limping through the throng of people.

“Let him through!” he called.

“Is it true?” a woman asked, grabbing Geralt’s arm as he passed her. “Did Prince Stennis try to kill the Dragonslayer?”

Geralt freed himself and came towards Iorveth. He leaned forward, whispering into his ear. “All the evidence points towards Stennis’ involvement, but the priest he tasked with the job died and I have no proof. What should we do?”

Iorveth stared over the people, already clamoring for blood while the nobility stood haughtily, piercing him with their glares. “We’ll lose their support if we kill him” he murmured, nodding towards them. “I also think he did it. Even if he was innocent, he has the means to save her now with his blood yet refuses on grounds of her being a peasant girl. He deserves death.”

“But we need him” finished Geralt his reasoning.

“Yes. Give them their evidence and facts; make it clear that we need to wait on Saskia’s judgement for his punishment. Let Stennis rot in the cells until she wakes up.”

Geralt nodded, turning towards the people. He threw Iorveth one last glance. “Thank you for keeping things under control.”

Iorveth scoffed and looked away. “Don’t mention it.”

“Meet me in the hall to the council chamber when we’re done here.”

And with that, the Witcher laid down his reasoning, speaking of poisoned wine cups, a priest named Olcan and a blacksmith dwarf who had all been complicit in the crime. Iorveth listened to his strong, rough voice, watched Geralt pace back and forth and remembered the sounds he had made when Iorveth stroked his cock, how smug he had looked with Iorveth in his mouth.

He could not wait for the Castle to clear.

 

* * *

 

Geralt watched as Stennis was led away in chains, too proud to even declare his innocence. His leg burned like fire, yet he ignored the pain. Iorveth had vanished some time ago and the Witcher knew exactly where to find him.

By now the Castle of the Three Fathers had mostly emptied. A few stragglers still lingered, discussing the events in hushed tones or complaining loudly to the guards. Zoltan and Dandelion stood with a group of dwarfs, one of them Cecil Burdon, the alderman. Geralt waved at them as he passed, making his way up the stairs and through the corridors until he reached the long hallway leading into Saskia’s council chamber.

Iorveth already waited for him, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a hungry look in his eyes. Geralt felt the tug in his belly and strode forward, pressing his palms against the roughly hewn stone wall on both sides of the elf. Iorveth leaned back, waiting, while Geralt breathed heavily, his wounded leg forgotten.

“You called me Gwynbleidd” he whispered, leaning down next to Iorveth, lips brushing the elongated ear. “Right after I told you not to.” Iorveth’s breath hitched, his arms unfolding.

“I did.”

“Why?”

Iorveth stayed silent.

“If you will not speak to me, we end it here and now” Geralt said.

The elf looked up at him. “I can’t take it off yet. Don’t force me to.”

“I won’t.”

Iorveth exhaled. “I’m sorry for ignoring your wishes, Geralt. It was a defensive reflex. I did not do it to hurt you.”

Geralt nodded. “Good.” He pushed into Iorveth, trapping him against the wall. “Now please allow me to touch you, before I lose my mind.”

“Always so greedy ...”

“I never claimed otherwise.”

Iorveth pushed against him, turning Geralt around with an expertly executed maneuver, pressing the length of his lower arms against the wall to either side of Geralt’s head. “I’m afraid I don’t have the patience to take my time with you after all.”

Geralt grinned. “I’m glad to hear it” he said, grinding against Iorveth, who gave a sharp yelp, before pushing back, rolling their hips together. “Fuck me” Geralt said.

Iorveth stopped in his movements. “ _Here?_ ”

“Nobody will see us.”

The elf barked a laugh. “When I fuck you, it will at the very least be on a sturdy table, not against a stone wall. We have no oil in either case.”

“I have blade oil” Geralt retorted.

“I’m still not fucking you in front of the council chamber.”

“Use your fingers then.” Geralt licked his lips, feeling Iorveth harden despite his stoic expression. “Fuck me on your fingers. Make me cum without touching my cock.”

Iorveth gave him a curious look. “Think you can manage it?”

“We’ll see if you’re good enough.”

The elf stared back at him for a long time, pupils blowing wide. “Where’s that oil you spoke of?”

Geralt grinned, shrugging out of Iorveth’s embrace and fishing the vial from his pouch. It was not high quality and certainly not meant for lubrication, but it would do its job. He thrust it into Iorveth’s hand, who pocketed it.

Geralt lifted a brow. “It’s not going to open itself.”

“Just because I’m not taking my time does not mean I will rush.” Iorveth leaned into him, nuzzling the short stubble of his beard and brushing his lips against his throat. “No marks, you said?”

“Nothing permanent.”

“That’s a relief.”

And with that, Iorveth sucked Geralt’s skin into his mouth. The Witcher moaned, scrabbling for purchase against the rough wall at his back, conscious that despite everything, Iorveth had still not given him permission to touch him properly. He felt Iorveth’s tongue caressing the bruising skin, his teeth biting deep, closing around the sensitive flesh. The elf drove him insane.

“You will … hopefully … allow me to return the favor” Geralt sighed, pressing his head further back to allow Iorveth better access. The elf didn’t answer, just kept kissing and sucking and _licking_ and Geralt felt his legs grow weak. His right thigh began to shake.

Suddenly Iorveth’s hand was beneath his knee, pulling the limb up and hooking Geralt’s calf around the elf’s hip until he half straddled him, their crotches pressed firmly together.

Geralt exhaled shakily, grabbing Iorveth’s shoulder for balance. Iorveth unlatched himself from Geralt’s throat long enough to eye his work. “Good enough” he declared. “Did you have any plans for the evening?”

“Resting in my rooms, maybe making some more potions …” Geralt answered, letting Iorveth hitch his leg up higher and support it there so that his weight was off the injury.

“Good” Iorveth said, unlacing Geralt’s trousers. “Because I plan to leave you incoherent once we’re done.” His fingers trailed over Geralt’s now exposed hipbone to his back, expertly finding the cleft and pressing against Geralt’s opening. The Witcher sighed, leaning into Iorveth to give him better access. The finger vanished, only to return slicked with oil. Slowly the elf circled his entrance, never quite breaching, only teasing, while his other hand kept Geralt’s leg up and climbed ever higher beneath his thigh until his knee was trapped above the elf’s arm and his hand ghosted near his uncovered cock which was already half-hard and sensitive to the slightest touch.

Geralt hissed as Iorveth pressed his finger past the tight ring of muscle, slowly circling inside of him. There was no pain, like he had expected, just a weird sensation of fullness. Iorveth crooked his finger, massaging Geralt from the inside, pulling out slightly, then pushing back in with two fingers. This time there was a definite burning, sharp and delicious. He felt his head loll back, eyelids fluttering close. How long ago had it been since somebody touched him there?

For a while he let Iorveth do his work, moaning whenever the elf brushed a sensitive spot inside him, simply enjoying the feeling of being filled. When Iorveth added a third finger however, he startled to attention, the pleasure mounting all of a sudden, coursing through his toes up into his cock.

“What was that?” he inquired, holding onto Iorveth for dear life as the elf started finger-fucking him in earnest, pulling out completely before pushing back in with much more force than before. Geralt couldn’t help but gasp as that place inside of him was hit right on, shooting lightning through his spine and cock. “ _Iorveth_ ” he moaned, digging his fingers into the other’s shoulder. Panting he started moving against Iorveth, pushing him deeper, searching again for that one spot—

Iorveth crooked his fingers and Geralt’s left leg buckled beneath him. The elf pressed him against the wall, lifting his leg higher until Geralt almost hung suspended. “Enjoying yourself?” Iorveth murmured, nuzzling against his neck and kissing his way down to the collar of Geralt’s armor.

Geralt tried to answer, but he couldn’t. Iorveth was fucking into him like a machine, unrelenting and hitting the sweet spot inside him—his prostate, he realized—with every thrust. His toes curled, sweat beaded on his brow. Wordless moans formed in his mouth. He tried to preserve some pride, to stay silent, but he couldn’t. Every hit against his prostate made him gasp and cringe in pleasure. Iorveth drove him towards his orgasm with single-minded purpose, yet he knew it wasn’t enough. The heat inside him was mounting painfully, but he couldn’t overcome his threshold.

“I-Iorveth” he tried, barely able to voice his thoughts. “Touch me.”

“Whatever happened to coming untouched?”

“I can’t.”

“Beg.”

Geralt ground his teeth, only to feel another finger brushing against his entrance while Iorveth’s thumb pressed against his perineum. “No … no more” he gasped, but Iorveth continued, pressing his little finger in beside the other three. Geralt burned alive, stretching open around Iorveth’s hand, strong and nimble, an archer’s instruments of death.

“You have a word” Iorveth reminded him as he came up from Geralt’s neck where surely another bruise was visible by now. “If you cannot handle it, use it. But I think you can.”

The word. Of course. Geralt opened his mouth to say it, only to scream in pleasure as the fourth finger finally found its way into his ass, pressing into him with all the mercy expected from a leader of the Scoia’tael. His fingertips brushed Geralt’s prostate. Instead of fucking him, he moved inside him, rubbing tight circles against the little nub. Geralt cried out again, pounding his head against the wall, unable to control his movements. Before it could give out under him, he hooked his left leg around Iorveth as well, letting the other man hold him up completely against the hallway wall. His cock felt on fire, rutting against Iorveth’s green armor skirt.

“Still not using your word?” Iorveth teased, redoubling his efforts in massaging Geralt’s sweet spot, a trail of sweat beading its way down his cheeks. “Could it be you like it after all?”

“T-touch … please, Iorveth …”

“Bear it a bit longer” Iorveth murmured, swallowing Geralt’s protests in a sloppy kiss that quickly ended with sucking Geralt’s tongue into his mouth and biting his lips raw.

“Geralt? Are you there?”

The movements inside him halted. Geralt deflated, harsh breaths slowing for a moment while he came back to reality. Iorveth had stopped fucking him, looking instead down the hallway. Geralt followed his gaze, realizing with sudden understanding whom the calling voice belonged to.

“Dandelion” he cursed. “What’s he still doing here?”

“I’ll let you down” Iorveth offered, but Geralt grabbed his hand, halting him.

“Stay as you are. You will _not_ leave me like this.”

“He will see us.”

“Let him, I’ve seen him in much more embarrassing scenarios.”

Iorveth turned to him, searching his gaze. Geralt gasped as his ministrations started up again, pushing into him slowly this time, and all the more torturing for it. “So the great Witcher likes being heard” he mused aloud, smiling smugly. “You like being seen as well? Should we call him over?”

Geralt gave a huff, which turned into a loud moan as Iorveth hit his prostate spot on. With one touch all his nerve endings ignited again, his cock itching for release.

“W-why not” he teased, circling his arms fully around Iorveth’s shoulders to pull him closer. He felt Iorveth’s hardness press under his cock, his precum leaking on his armor. “I’ll not stop you.”

Iorveth narrowed his eye. “Answer him then” he ordered. Geralt gasped as Iorveth’s thumb brushed his entrance.

“You can’t” he growled, squirming in Iorveth’s grasp. “Won’t fit.”

“Answer him.” The thumb pressed past the furl of muscle, opening Geralt up like a vice. He clamped his eyes shut, feeling himself cresting closer and closer to the edge.

“W-what will you do if I d-don’t?”

Iorveth licked over Geralt’s lips. “Try me and find out.”

The five fingers left for a moment while Iorveth coated them in more oil, before returning slick and hot and so _so_ good and Geralt lost all reasoning. “I’m here!” he called back to Dandelion. Steps sounded as the bard came closer.

“What are you doing?” screamed Dandelion. “Is it your leg? Are you hurt?”

“Just l-leave! I’m fi— _ahhhhn_ ”

Iorveth had pushed in all the way, fingers digging into his prostate.

“Geralt, what is going on?!”

“I think he’s coming” the elf informed him. “Would you like that? Your best friend seeing you like this, fucked on my fingers, helpless and begging for release?”

“I’m not … not begging.”

Iorveth laughed, pressing back in, his arms shaking from the effort of holding Geralt up. “Not yet.”

“GERALT!”

Geralt had just enough time to see Dandelion’s shape rush into the entrance of their hiding place before Iorveth dug into him while at the same time sucking his throat. His cock throbbed, feeling close to exploding. He couldn’t take it, he couldn’t come like this, he needed more, more, _more_ —

“ _Please_ ” he sobbed, ignoring Dandelion, who suddenly stood very still like a lamb facing down a wolf, knowing it cannot escape. “Just touch me already!”

“Are you begging yet?” Iorveth inquired, relentless in drilling his fingers into Geralt.

“Bloody elf” Geralt cursed, eyes teary in desperation. “I beg you, _please_ , just take my fucking cock and _ah ... ahhh!_ ” Iorveth only brushed his fingers over Geralt’s head yet he came with enough force that he was sure he lost consciousness for a moment, blackness flooding his sight, all sounds dull and his prostate on fire. Iorveth let him slide to the ground, panting harshly, exertion from holding him up so long clear on his face.

Geralt’s head lolled to the side, searching for Dandelion, who had vanished.

Iorveth chuckled. “He saw you come and bolted” he informed Geralt, who gave a dry laugh. He felt Iorveth pull out his fingers slowly, whimpering at the loss of contact. He felt cold and empty inside. “Can’t walk” he said.

“I know” Iorveth sat down beside him, taking Geralt in his arm. “You are quite the sight, Geralt. I didn’t know you could make such desperate expressions.”

“You didn’t manage to make me cum on your fingers alone, though” Geralt murmured, feeling sleepy and over-fucked like he hadn’t in a long time.

“Don’t worry” Iorveth said, nibbling his ear. “Next time it will be my cock.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Iorveth search for the Symbol of Death. Dandelion writes a poem.

The rest of the evening passed in a haze. Geralt was dimly aware that Iorveth half led, half carried him back to the inn. Their arrival must have made quite the impression, though he didn’t remember any of it.

When he awoke the next morning, he found himself naked on his bed, clean, sore and with a freshly dressed bandage around his leg. Groaning, he got up. A sharp sting accompanied his every movement as he limped to the wash tub, which was already filled with clean water. Geralt laughed as he saw his reflection. His whole neck was a mess of interconnecting bruises and love bites. Iorveth had not skimped on his efforts to mark him for everyone to see.

“And I still haven’t touched the bastard” Geralt swore.

“Miss me already?” Iorveth drawled from his seat at the other end of the room. “I thought you might want a break after yesterday, but if you insist …”

“Did you do all this?”

“It surely wasn’t you.” Iorveth smiled, stretching as he stood up and came towards Geralt. “Dandelion tried to visit you this morning. I told him you were indisposed.”

With a flash, Geralt remembered how Dandelion had caught them, Iorveth even teasing him to call the bard over. He sighed. “I will never live this down …”

“You survived worse” Iorveth scoffed. “A kayran for example.”

“I’d rather fight the kayran again than confront Dandelion right about now.”

“I did offer to stop, but you _insisted_ that I continue fucking you, so—“

“It’s my fault, I get it.” Geralt reached out a hand towards Iorveth, who obediently came closer. When they stood almost nose to nose, he stopped. “Is there a reason you don’t let me touch you?” Geralt asked.

The elf lifted his brow. “You sucked my dick.”

“Without using my hands.” They stared at each other. “I will not force you into anything” Geralt said finally. “I just need to know if this is a general thing or about me specifically.”

“Both.”

“Care to explain or do I have to guess?”

Iorveth sighed dramatically, turning towards the window. “I don’t like being touched in general by most people, especially not by someone who … could so effortlessly kill me.”

“You underestimate yourself” Geralt said. “It would take a lot of effort, trust me.”

“I don’t trust easily” Iorveth continued. “It’s something that gets my kind killed more often than not, and I am old enough to have learned that lesson many times over.”

Geralt nodded, ignoring the sting in his chest. It hurt, trusting Iorveth to let the elf fuck him in the open, to give him all the control, yet not be trusted back in the same way. But he understood. He too had been betrayed, and he still felt that pain keenly. Iorveth must be over a hundred years old, at least. It was a long time to harden a heart; and it would take more than words to prove worthy of the elf’s trust.

“After that night, when you left” Iorveth began, turning back to Geralt, “did you evade me on purpose?”

“I didn’t seek you out” Geralt said. “That is not the same. I see no reason in returning to Vergen every night when I have to track back up the mountains in the morning. I prefer sleeping outside where I do my work. Though I will admit I was not too keen on meeting you right afterwards.”

“When will you head out again?”

Geralt looked outside. Thanks to Iorveth, he had slept away the morning. “Soon” he said. “I need to find one of the artefacts. I’m fairly sure the standard of the dun banner is in the dwarfen catacombs.”

“The dun banner?”

“A special Kaedweni unit that fought in the battle some years ago when Sabrina cursed this place. They all died, apparently. Their standard is the Symbol of Death.”

“Seems you’ve been quite busy” Iorveth said, impressed. “You’ll need to catch me up on your research on our way to the catacombs.”

“ _Our_ way?” Geralt asked.

“Yes.” The elf opened the window, swiftly climbing up on the windowsill and hooking one leg outside. “We will meet in the _butcher’s quarter_.” And with that last mocking remark, he jumped down. Geralt shook his head in amazement, before pulling on his clothes and armor. He debated whether to cover the marks on his neck, but decided against it. He was Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf. Nobody expected him to be abstinent, and the only one who knew the origin of the marks was Dandelion.

 

* * *

 

“Geralt, how good to see you!” Dandelion greeted him, as he came down some time later to get a belated breakfast. He sat down next to the bard, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Why so chipper, Dandelion?” he asked.

“I have this great new poem that I am working on” his friend babbled on, tipping up his violet hat. “Do you want to hear it?”

“No.”

“Wonderful. Hm-hm, I declaim:

 

_What sad event that made me linger,_

_to see my friend fucked on a finger._

_His screams of passion ebb away,_

_fading fast like light of day._

“It was five fingers, for your information” Geralt corrected him.

“That is not the point, Geralt!”

“It’s not the point to write about my sex life in great detail? Then what has been your profession all these years?”

“He is a Scoia’tael, Geralt. The most vicious leader they ever had, if you believe the reports. He is dangerous.”

“So am I.”

“He is a murderer!”

“So am I. So are Yennefer and Triss. I have never heard you objecting about them.”

Dandelion sighed. “Just … promise that you are not serious about him.”

Geralt became very still. Was he serious about Iorveth? Had he been serious about Yennefer when his memories were still intact, or had he never been serious about anyone in his life?

“I promise if _you_ promise never to write another poem about me again” he finally said, hoping Dandelion had not noticed his lapse in thought.

The bard groaned. “You know I cannot do that, Geralt!”

“Why, because I’m your greatest source of fame and income?”

“I prefer the term _muse_.”

“Well, if you can’t promise, then neither can I. Now let me eat my breakfast in peace. And change that last verse in the poem, it’s very cliché.”

“Oh, I know” Dandelion sighed, sounding defeated. “Innkeep, bring more beer!”

 

* * *

 

Iorveth sat on the roof of his home in the Scoia’tael quarter, staring out over the city proper, water dripping down his chin and hands. He was drenched from the rain that poured down from steel grey clouds, his bow already unstrung so the bowstring didn’t foul. The weather reflected his confused mood. There was no denying anymore that something between him and Geralt had shifted, and while he enjoyed their _activities_ together, he wasn’t sure if he should continue them. The longer he spent time in Geralt’s company, the more it shocked him how untrue his prior information about the Witcher had been.

Greedy for money and women he was supposed to be, a man of no conscience and without a single human emotion in his heart. Instead Iorveth now saw in him compassion and caring, unflinching loyalty to his friends, and a hidden desire to do the right thing.

The simple fact that he was still here, trying to cure Saskia, spoke volumes.

And yet his doubts lingered. If it came to it, would he still side with Iorveth and the Scoia’tael, or was he just using them to achieve his goals, as he had admitted back in Flotsam’s forest?

“What has you looking so grim?” a rough voice called from below. Iorveth looked down, where Geralt stood, equally dripping wet. “I was the one that had to listen to Dandelion’s poem, not you.”

Iorveth scoffed and jumped down. “Was it any good?”

“Ugh. Don’t ask.”

They fell into step beside each other, as if they had done so a hundred times before, Iorveth moving gracefully as if still in a forest where every wrong step could betray him to enemies, Geralt with a confident stride that spoke of his ability to counter any attack before it happened.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. They left the rubble of houses behind, took the route through a tunnel outside the city and by noon found themselves in the deep forests surrounding Vergen.

“May I ask you a question, Geralt?” Iorveth said after a while.

The Witcher eyed him from the side. “Ask away.”

“Why are you still here? If you went to Henselt and offered him your sword, you wouldn’t need to search the countryside for magical ingredients instead of Triss.”

“I’m pretty sure Vergen has the better inn.”

Iorveth halted, grabbing his arm. “I’m serious, Geralt. Why?”

The Witcher sighed, dragging his free hand through his wet hair. “You think I will change sides any second? Is that what this is about?”

“Just answer the question.”

“ _Fine_.” Geralt ripped himself free. “Zoltan and I have friends here. Do you think I would leave him and Dandelion behind, knowing in a battle I might have to face them? That aside, you were right about Saskia. She deserves the crown, not a prick like Henselt or Stennis. I promised I would not betray you, Iorveth. When will you start believing me?”

“What about Triss? Aren’t you betraying her by staying with me?”

“I’ll find her, with or without help.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.”

Iorveth stared after Geralt as the Witcher went ahead, putting more and more distance between them.

 

* * *

 

“You are quite knowledgeable about the battle that took place here” Iorveth commented as they left the catacombs some hours and many wraith fights later. “It’s almost as if you had been there.”

Geralt scoffed. “I’ve had to read countless accounts and listen to a dozen different people about this damned battle to find out what artefacts we can use.”

Iorveth looked up into the darkening sky, which was already littered with stars, the moon a pale disc shedding weak light. “We will not make it back to the town before nightfall. Let’s make camp here.”

The Witcher nodded. “There is a cave up ahead somewhere. Come.”

Iorveth followed silently as they made their way through the dense thickets. He had no idea how Geralt had noticed the cave they eventually settled in, seeing as it was hidden by a cluster of bushes, but he was too tired to ask. In contrast to Geralt, who had slept like the dead this night, he had barely caught any sleep, not daring to leave Geralt alone in such a vulnerable state, yet not able to relax enough with him in the same room.

Geralt did not bother making a fire, simply leaned against the entry to the cave. Iorveth stood in the dark for a while, unsure if the Witcher would offer to share warmth or something else, but Geralt had been decidedly uncommunicative since their argument earlier and Iorveth wasn’t ready to reopen this line of conversation yet.

Without anything else to do, he lay down on his blankets in the corner and curled up, conserving his warmth as best he could. First, he was sure he would never be able to sleep with Geralt so close and awake, but soon he realized the Witcher was meditating, his breathing coming slow and shallow. It was to this comforting sound that Iorveth finally fell into a deep sleep.

 

* * *

 

Geralt awoke from the soft patter of feet in the wet grass. His eyelids shot open, but his body stayed still, not giving away a sign that he had been startled. Carefully he waited. A rustling in the bushes, the glint of moonlight on drawn steel. He pulled his sword from its scabbard, but he wasn’t fast enough. Cold, wet metal bit into the skin of his throat, drawing a bead of blood. With a start, Geralt recognized the black clothing and yellow cat eyes that mirrored his own.

It was Serrit.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt makes a choice. Iorveth burns a rabbit.

The tips of two swords pressed painfully into Geralt’s skin, one against his throat, the other, much more worrying one, sat right on his groin.

“If you so much as twitch” Serrit growled, “dying will be the least of your problems.” Geralt let his muscles slowly relax. Against a human, he might have tried to escape, quickly ducking away or casting Axii, but not against another Witcher. “Now slowly put down your sword” Serrit ordered in a hoarse whisper. “I only come to talk.”

“You’ve been doing a lot of that so far” Geralt said quietly. “Well done.”

“Mock me if it please you, but we both know it is empty words.”

“Just get to the point already” Geralt said. “Having a sword pointed at your dick isn’t as comfortable as you might think.”

Serrit’s eyes creased, the black cloth around his jaw hiding his smirk.

“Then let me speak plainly. Iorveth has been a thorn in our side for a long time now, and since you decided to travel with him, doubly so. Let me kill him, and in return I will give you something.”

Geralt laughed. “That would have to be quite the _something_ to make you think I’d agree to that bargain.”

“I should hope so” Serrit said. “Because that _something_ is Triss.”

 

* * *

 

Iorveth cracked his eyes open, hushed whispers having followed him into his dreams of blood and failure. For a moment, he thought Geralt had spoken in his sleep, but then another voice sounded, smooth like river rocks. “Iorveth has been a thorn in our side for a long time now, and since you decided to travel with him, doubly so. Let me kill him, and in return I will give you something.”

He couldn’t see the person Geralt was speaking with, but he recognized the sly voice as Serrit’s. It made sense. No one else would have the means to bargain with a Witcher like that. Geralt must have mumbled something, for the next moment, Serrit continued.

“Because that _something_ is Triss.”

The words sent ice shards through Iorveth’s veins. Now here was a price for which Geralt would gladly betray him, promises or no. He kept his breathing deep and even, hoping it was enough to fool the Witchers. His mind already played through the scenario, how he would grip his sword and launch himself at Geralt who’s back was thankfully turned towards him. He would slit his throat from behind, then evade Serrit’s follow-up attack coming from the side.

It was a fight he could never win, of course. Even one Witcher was too much for him to handle alone, but he would not die without a fight. At the very least, he’d add to Geralt’s already impressive collection of scars, a defeated foe to be remembered during love-making.

“You have Triss?” Geralt growled, anger coloring his voice. “What did you do with her?”

“We did nothing with your precious witch, don’t worry” Serrit said. “She’s in the Kaedweni Camp, though not for much longer. Auckes is close, ready to get her if you cooperate.”

“I can get her myself.”

“You’re welcome to try, but you would never find her in time. She is not quite … herself at the moment.”

“I don’t know what your game is, Serrit” Geralt said, not even trying to be quiet anymore. “You kill kings, you want Iorveth dead, for what?”

“It’s none of your business. You only need to get out of my way, collect Triss and leave Vergen. Nothing else should concern you. Now move to the side.”

“I will not.”

Iorveth forgot to breathe. Had he heard correctly?

“You will not?” Serrit asked, equally incredulous. “You would trade in Triss for this elf you’ve met barely two weeks ago?”

“I will find her myself, Serrit. And _you_ should probably stop pretending and fucking help me.”

“What do you—“

Iorveth’s sword flew towards the Witcher, whirring through the air and narrowly missing as Serrit jumped back. It was enough. Geralt drew his own sword back up again, throwing himself at Serrit, free hand forming signs too quick for Iorveth to catch. A shimmer formed around Geralt, shielding him from Serrit’s attack as the slice hit his arm. Iorveth grabbed his bow, notching an arrow and letting fly almost immediately. His missing finger still unbalanced him, but he managed to hit Serrit’s thigh, forcing the Witcher into the defense.

Geralt unleashed a blur of attacks on his opponent, cutting through skin and flesh and drawing blood. Suddenly, it was over, Serrit lying on the ground, coughing blood, only one sword left in his loose grip.

“Idiot” he sputtered. “Letho will … kill you both …”

Geralt breathed in deeply, lowering his weapon. “Let him try.”

Iorveth came forward, another arrow already notched, but it seemed like it was not needed.

“How did you know I was awake?” he asked, as he stepped closer.

Geralt looked at him, eyebrow raised. “You stopped breathing there for a moment, remember?” Iorveth smiled.

_“Yrden!”_

Serrit’s free hand shot forward, a violet blaze capturing them, immobilizing Geralt and Iorveth for a split second, but it was enough. The Witcher thrust his sword upwards, right into Geralt’s upper thigh, digging deep into the flesh. A grunt was the only sound Geralt made before crumpling to the ground. Iorveth’s finger twitched, losing the arrow right into Serrit’s eye.

Blood pooled beneath the Witcher’s head, but Iorveth only shot him a cursory glance, making sure he was dead, before dropping down next to a heavily bleeding Geralt.

“Bastard” the Witcher said, pressing the wound closed as best he could. “Should have killed him. Thought I could ask him about Letho before finishing it. Urgh.”

“Where are your things?” Iorveth asked, scanning the cave for Geralt’s usual bag of medical supplies.

Heavy-lidded, Geralt nodded towards a rock behind which Iorveth found what he was looking for. He liberally poured alcohol over the bandages, string and needle, then went to his knees next to Geralt, who looked at him imploringly. “We _need_ to get Triss” he said, while Iorveth helped him remove his injured leg from his trousers and then started cleaning the wound.

“You are not going anywhere in this condition” Iorveth said, staring at the seeping wound. “I have never sewn somebody shut before.”

“It’s easy. Like fucking. In and out.”

“Fucking is not easy if you do it right.”

“Do you want _me_ to do it?”

“Shut up, Geralt.”

Iorveth quickly got the hang of the process, though it still felt weird to sew flesh and skin instead of linen. Sweat was dripping down his nose by the time he was done. He bandaged everything up, only to find Geralt slipping away. “Wake up, Geralt” he said, patting his cheek. “Stay with me. Don’t sleep now. You need to get Triss, remember?”

That got the Witcher’s attention. “Triss” he murmured. “I couldn’t protect her. Again.”

“You could have.” Iorveth sat down heavily. “All you had to trade in was me. Why didn’t you?”

Geralt coughed, reaching out a hand towards Iorveth. He leaned back, afraid Geralt might want to mess with his bandanna again, but instead Geralt grabbed his hand, the left one, and gripped tight. “Care too much.”

“You are not well” Iorveth murmured, pressing back. “You lost a lot of blood.”

“Iorveth.” Geralt closed his eyes. “You are an idiot sometimes.”

Iorveth couldn’t help it. He smiled. “Only sometimes, huh? I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Help me … get her back?”

“I will. I promise. But you can’t sleep now, Geralt. Talk to me.”

“You said I betrayed her” Geralt mumbled. “I didn’t. Triss and I … are complicated. Yen and I were … complicated too. I only know complicated, apparently. We are lovers sometimes. Then friends again. It’s never clear. We’re not … exclusive like that.”

Iorveth snorted. “I see. So what am I? Your side-fuck?”

“Don’t know yet.” Geralt cracked open an eye. “But I don’t want to lose you.”

 

* * *

 

Sometime in the early morning hours, Iorveth let Geralt fall asleep. He watched the gentle rise and fall of the Witcher’s chest, making sure his condition didn’t worsen. Geralt had said many things in their nightly vigil, most of which Iorveth tried to forget again. False hope was worse than no hope, and suddenly that was exactly what it was.

Hope.

That maybe, against all odds, Geralt might actually care about him, Iorveth, the person behind the rumors. It was a slim hope, but it was there, a small speck of light in Iorveth’s otherwise dark world.

Because, and that was the truly frightening part, he cared about Geralt as well. He enjoyed their banter, admired him for his strength and loyalty, his intelligence. For the fact that he stood up for non-humans when it mattered. And more than all of that, he was keenly aware that while Geralt might curse a lot about not being allowed to touch Iorveth, he had never tried to violate his wishes, never pushed past Iorveth’s boundaries against his will.

It was more than Iorveth had received in a long time. And it felt good.

Geralt slept the rest of the day and into the night. The one time he did wake from the pain, he made Iorveth fetch him one of his potions which apparently helped since he was dead to the world quickly afterwards.

Iorveth changed his bandages, checking for infection, but the wound healed nicely. Because they had no provisions with them, he went outside to collect berries and shoot a hare. Serrit’s body, which he had dragged outside earlier, was attracting flies, so he shoveled a grave a bit farther off and buried him there.

When Geralt woke up later, Iorveth had already dressed the hare, the meat sizzling on a stick in the fire. “Thought I smelled something good” Geralt murmered. Iorveth gave him water to drink and the handful of berries he had found.

“The food is almost ready” he said. “How are you feeling?”

Geralt sat up, massaging his injured leg. “Better.” He stared into the fire. “How long was I out?”

“A day, give or take.”

“We’re not going to find Triss in time, are we?” he asked.

Iorveth grabbed his shoulder, pressing slightly. “I fear not.”

“I brought her scarf to Philippa, before Stennis got arrested” Geralt said quietly. “She should know where she is when we return.”

“We will find her, Geralt.” Iorveth scooted over until he sat in front of him. The Witcher’s eyes widened as Iorveth took his hand and placed it over his ruined cheek. “Touch me” he whispered.

Geralt hesitated, carefully caressing his cheek. “The bandanna?”

Iorveth took a deep breath. “Take it off.”

Geralt took his time, slowly folding the cloth back, untying the knot in the back and finally dropping the garment into their lap. Iorveth’s hair tumbled down, dark brown and slightly curly from being braided all the time. Geralt stroked over the side of his face, letting his fingertips wander over the scar tissue, the remnants of an eye.

Iorveth shivered under his ministrations, his every instinct screaming at him to flee. Geralt leaned forward, softly pressing their lips together. Iorveth felt a flutter in the pit of his stomach, a moment of queasiness before he regained his composure and kissed back, moving his lips against Geralt’s, feeling their warmth, the slightly rough surface. He hooked his arms around Geralt’s neck, letting the Witcher press them closer until he was basically sitting in the other’s lap.

“Is your leg fine?” he managed between two kisses, his breath coming uneven and shaky. They had never kissed like this, unhurried and gentle. It almost felt like too much.

“As long as you don’t sit down on it …” Geralt kissed him again, then his chin, his jaw, his ear, the scarred ruin of his eye. Iorveth shuddered, clawing into the Witcher’s hair. “Are you getting excited?” Geralt whispered against his ear, grinding their hips together.

“No more than you” Iorveth countered, dropping a hand between them to slowly stroke Geralt through his trousers.

“You know, I never asked” Geralt murmured, biting his way slowly down his neck. “How did you get off after carrying me back to the inn?”

Iorveth laughed, then moaned as Geralt kissed the hollow of this throat, sucking the skin into his mouth. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I would. I like to think you did it with your hand, imagining how my mouth felt when I blew you.”

“I’ll do that next time” Iorveth sighed, baring his throat for Geralt. “I actually … came while fucking you against the wall.”

That drew the Witcher’s attention. Geralt stopped sucking bruises into his skin and looked up to him. “I never noticed.”

“You were quite busy coming yourself.”

Geralt laughed, incredulous. “Dandelion? When he watched us?”

Iorveth grinned, fisting Geralt’s cock through the leather. “Seems we both liked that part a bit too much.”

“ _Ahh_ … I guess we did. Wait. What’s that smell?”

Iorveth’s head shot up. “Bloede arse!” Geralt laughed out loud.

“I think you burned the rabbit.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth and Geralt meet up with a very enraged Philippa.

It was another two days before Geralt was in any shape to walk. The way back to Vergen only took them a few hours usually, but with the wounds he had received on both legs, they needed all day for their return. Triss’ uncertain fate was always at the back of his mind, and even though he was brutally exhausted after returning to the dwarven city, he and Iorveth first made their way to Philippa’s residence.

The sorceress opened the door in a very revealing nightgown and her usually carefully braided hair a tangled mess.

“What is it, Geralt?” she ground out in barely contained fury. “I have important matters to attend.”

“Whipping Cynthia?” Geralt guessed with a smirk.

“Cynthia!” Philippa turned on her heels, throwing up her arms. “The bitch betrayed me!”

Iorveth and Geralt shared a glance. “How so?” Geralt finally asked as they followed Philippa into her house.

“She pretended to be my apprentice, now I find out she is a sorceress in her own right, and a Nilfgaardian spy at that. To think she had me so fooled …”

“Nilfgaard?” Iorveth asked darkly. “What does Emhyr want in Vergen?”

“Still no love lost between the Scoia’tael and the empire, I see.” Philippa went into the small adjoining room to dress herself. “But you have come for news about Triss, surely. I used a seeking spell, Geralt, and yesterday it showed Triss to be somewhere on the other side of the mist. Today she is further away, and travelling fast. I fear whoever has taken her is leaving, or she is doing it of her own volition, in which case I don’t know what to make of it. Either way, since she carried the Rose of Remembrance, we may have to find a substitute for Saskia’s cure.”

“Is there such a thing?” Iorveth immediately asked.

“Not that I know of, but in magic there is never just one way to work a spell. I will have to do more research.”

Geralt crossed his arms. “So you’re just giving up on Triss?” he asked.

“Of course not, Geralt” Philippa said as she reentered, this time wearing an embellished black dress, he hair done up in braids as usual. “I will strengthen the seeking spell again to not lose track of her, but for now, Saskia has to be our priority. How is your search coming along?”

“We found the Symbol of Death” Geralt said. “The Immortelle should be down in the mines, though Cecil won’t let us look for it. He says the monsters inside are too dangerous. Same goes for the Harpy’s Lair. Only he has the key.”

Philippa sighed in annoyance. “So you mean to tell me that a week has gone by and we have nothing?”

Iorveth scoffed. “What do you mean, nothing? We have royal blood.”

“Stennis didn’t give his blood to Geralt—”

“He is our prisoner” Iorveth snarled. “If it saves Saskia, I will bleed him dry myself, with our without his consent.”

“Royal blood is never to be spilled lightly” Philippa said. “Though in this case, I think we must chance it. Then let us proceed like this: I shall speak with the alderman and see to it that he doesn’t stop our progress any further with his cowardice. Iorveth, you pay the Prince a visit and get some of his blood, by any means necessary, though I remind you again not to kill him. A few drops should suffice. And Geralt … get some rest. It pains me to look at you in this sorry state. Tomorrow, when Cecil has given his assent, you’ll have more than enough monsters to kill. Now out, both of you. Cynthia left in a hurry, who knows why, since I clearly did not suspect her, and I need to look through her things. Maybe I shall find something of interest.”

 

* * *

 

After delivering Geralt into the inn and telling a very chagrinned Dandelion to make sure the Witcher stayed there, Iorveth made his way to the closely located dungeons.

Stennis was not the only inhabitant of the cold and musty cells; a thief and a murderer were also imprisoned, though their crimes must have happened some weeks ago, judging by their grown out beards and filthy clothing.

Two dwarven guards led Iorveth under much grumbling to the Prince, suggesting to him quite nicely that there was plenty of room left for him and his band of outlaws. Iorveth ignored them. Since arriving in Vergen and living in the open, so to speak, he had given up on explaining his viewpoint. It took too much effort, and yielded nothing in return.

Geralt might be the only one to have ever actually listened to his reasoning.

Don’t pretend like he approves your methods, his traitorous mind supplied. Iorveth shook off his doubts and entered Stennis’ cell.

The Prince looked much worse for wear, the nobility generally being unused to the harsh prison life. Iorveth saw his sunken cheeks and hollow eyes and found only disdain for this man who had poisoned Saskia. _Let him suffer_ , he thought. Let him for once in his life experience true misery, like Iorveth had lived in for decades.

As he approached, Stennis lifted himself up from his bed of dirty straw and stared at Iorveth with eyes full of righteous hatred. “What do you want, elf?” he spat. “Come to gloat over your betters?”

“Hardly” Iorveth said, producing a small glass vial from his pouch that Philippa had supplied him with. “You have something we need. I come to procure it.”

“I already told you, I won’t bleed for that peasant.”

“You make it sound as if you have a choice” Iorveth snarled, drawing his dagger. “You don’t.”

This finally seemed to wake Stennis form his haughty haze. He scrambled to his feet, hands groping for the hilt of a sword that no longer hung around his waist. “She will destroy Aedirn” he said. “ _I_ am the ruler this realm needs. I need to light the way in this battle.”

“Tell that to someone who wants to hear your drivel” Iorveth said. “To me, you are a Dh’oine, as worthless as the next piss-drinking peasant. The only human I will support is the Virgin. Be thankful I only come to collect some blood and not to be your executioner, though I will beg for that honor when Saskia is conscious again.”

“Try then” Stennis said, even going so far as to lift his fists and take a fighting stance.

Iorveth shot forward, easily breaking through Stennis’ feeble defense and pushing the point of his dagger against his throat.

“Careful now” he whispered into Stennis’ ear, reveling in the smell of cold fear coming from the Prince. “My hand might slip if you move to hastily. Slow and steady, Dh’oine.” He slit a path down Stennis’ throat to his breastbone, shallow enough that he barely broke the skin. Pressing the lip of the opened glass vial tightly against Stennis’ chest, he watched the red droplets trickle into the container.

After finishing with Stennis, Iorveth delivered the blood to Philippa for safekeeping, then made his way over to the tavern. Instead of taking the main entrance, he scaled up the wall in trained movements, stone dust coating his fingers when he made it up to Geralt’s room. He was satisfied to see the Witcher lie in bed, only a small fire burning in the hearth. He eased the window open, having rigged the lock the last time he came through here, and dropped into the room on quiet soles.

Geralt made a rumbling noise and turned in his direction, cracking one eyelid open. When he recognized Iorveth, he scooted back without a word, lifting up his blanket invitingly. Iorveth stared at the picture in front of him. Warmth swelled in his chest, a feeling of belonging and comfort he had never thought to experience again. They had of course slept next to each other while camping in the cave, but he had not really expected Geralt to offer him the same kind of intimacy when they returned to the city.

“Hurry up” Geralt murmured, closing his eye again, but keeping the blanket lifted up. “’s getting cold.”

Iorveth stood unmoving a moment longer, before undressing to his undershirt and letting his bandanna fall to the floor, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. He darted beneath the covers, letting Geralt pull him into a loose embrace, nuzzling his neck from behind.

It didn’t take long for Geralt’s breathing to even out again. Iorveth felt as if caught in a dream, unable to believe what was happening. The famous Witcher, who probably slept light enough to be woken by the smallest of sounds, who under normal circumstances never even slept in a bed and instead meditated sitting up, lay next to Iorveth, snoring softly, muscular thighs pressing into Iorveth’s legs from behind, sharing his warmth.

It was unreal. It had to be.

 _Please let it be real_ , Iorveth thought, and closed his eyes. _Just for one night, let it be real._

 

* * *

 

Geralt flicked the harpy blood from his sword, leaning against one of the rocky walls. He stood amidst a heap of dead Celaeno harpies, including the bigger Queen, with its green luminous feathers and violet dream stones embedded in her arms.

Careful not to slip on the bloody stones, he made his way to the circular monument that throned over the cliff. The Queen harpy had put one of the crystallized dreams into the central hollow. He had found quite a few similar chunks of colorful formations in the lair, mostly embedded between sharp rocks and covered in a clear, foul-smelling slime which he suspected was harpy saliva used to create the crystals.

Geralt went through his bounty. Most showed him visions of fuzzy images, some were nightmares, but one of them glowed in a fiery read and pulsed with energy. As he pushed the stone into the indention, a fierce scream tore him from his body and into the dream. Geralt saw through double-lidded eyes, swooping down over La Valette Castle. He felt the harsh wind under his mighty wings, the smoldering heat in his belly. Small human creatures flitted around beneath him, but they were not of import. With another vicious growl, he plummeted through the air, opening his huge jaws—

With a start, Geralt tore himself free from the dream, panting as if he had fought the harpies all over again. The dream belonged to the dragon, the one that had ambushed them at the Castle and then flown over to Aedirn. Seemingly it nested close to Vergen, probably up in the mountains.

The sense of power that emanated from the dream, now that he had flown in the creatures body, was intense, thousand needles prickling his neck and arms. This was it. If Philippa still found this magical source too weak, she was welcome to search the countryside herself.

There was only one crystal left, a smoky blue one that pulsed softly in irregular intervals. Geralt almost threw it away, having found what he had come for, but stopped himself. Something about this crystal intrigued him. It gave him a fuzzy feeling, as if he was intoxicated, and yet he felt comfortable and almost sleepy with it.

He pushed it into the slot. Instead of being assaulted by images, like with the dragon, he was gently carried into this dream, and instantly knew why he had been drawn to it.

He stood in a cozy room. A wooden table stood laden with bread, cheese, fish and wine, and a hearty fire crackled in the hearth. On the bench behind the table sat, legs resting on a stool and a smoking pipe in hand, Iorveth.

He barely recognized the elf. He didn't wear his bandanna, but his scar was faded and barely visible, and he looked more at ease than Geralt had ever seen him, even after their love-making. For a few moments, Iorveth simply sat there, drinking wine and watching the fire burn down. Then another person entered.

Geralt stared as a second Geralt leaned against the bench, brushing his fingers through Iorveth's hair and gently kissing his brow. Iorveth closed his eyes, smiling, then faded into pale smoke as the dream ended.

“Geralt?”

Sharply, Geralt turned, finding himself face to face with the real Iorveth, who had come over and was still cleaning his sword from harpy guts. “What?”

“Did you find a magical source?”

“Yes.” Geralt let the blue crystal quickly vanish behind his back. “A dragon dream. Very powerful.”

Iorveth cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? And what about that other dream you're hiding so unsuspiciously behind your back? Your own, perhaps?”

Geralt coughed. “Oh, uh. No. It's nothing.”

Iorveth's face crinkled in amusement. “It's a sex dream, isn't it. Don't worry.” With a quick movement, he was beside Geralt, giving his crotch a tight squeeze. “I have plans for _this_ when we return.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The antidote is assembled. Iorveth makes good on his plans for Geralt.

“There” Geralt said, dropping the glowing Immortelle and the red dragon dream on Philippa’s worktable. Iorveth stood to the side, taking in the orderly way in which the sorceress had channeled her chaos. Leather-bound tombs littered every surface, piling up high in towers or lying open on top of each other, interesting chapters marked with loose papers full of neatly scrawled notes and sketches. It seemed Philippa had done as promised and intensified her research over the last three days. That was how long it had taken Geralt and him to acquire the two missing ingredients, which now lay on the polished wood and did not at all seem like they would save Saskia from certain death.

“Excellent” said Philippa, inspecting the objects. “Stennis’ blood in combination with these shall work nicely.”

“We still need the substitute for the Rose” Iorveth reminded her. It pained him how Geralt stared numbly ahead, knowing that it meant Triss was still unaccounted for.

Philippa shook her head. “It turns out that while we searched for Triss and with her the Rose of Remembrance, it was under our very noses the entire time.” She let a small bundle fall on the table, which Geralt immediately opened. In it lay, pale as freshly grown lavender, the Rose.

“But how?” Geralt asked, puzzled. “I gave it to Triss for safe-keeping. She wanted to make a potion with it that would restore my memories. She would have never given it away.”

“Not willingly” Philippa agreed. She took the Rose from Geralt and held it lightly in her palm. “I found this bag in the belongings that Cynthia left behind in her haste to flee. It seems Nilfgaard had a hand in making Triss vanish, and I think it is them that are taking her further away this very moment while we are busy preparing for a war. I still do not understand why Cynthia decided to bolt though. Surely she was more useful as a spy in my bed than as a fighter.

“What about Serrit?” Iorveth chimed in.

“Serrit?” Philippa turned to him. “Who is that?”

“One of the Kingslayers” Geralt supplied. “He ambushed us in the northern forests. Wanted me to kill Iorveth in exchange for Triss.” A sudden glint of interest lit up Philippa’s eyes as she looked to Iorveth.

“Is that so? Then I suppose we are fortunate to still have you here with us, don’t we.”

“The point is that Serrit knew where Triss was being held.” Geralt’s face darkened. “He said I would never find her in time if I were on my own. Something about her not being herself at the moment.”

Philippa slammed a hand down on the table in sudden understanding. “Of course!” she exclaimed. “A transformation, perchance even an artefact compression. Powerful magic, but Cynthia would have been able to do it. She must have found Triss before she could reach Vergen, transformed her and given her to her allies in the Kaedweni Camp.”

“But that would mean she knew Letho was coming via teleport” Iorveth said, staring at the Rose in Philippa’s hand.

“Just so. I sense intrigue, and Nilfgaard is at the heart of it. We must tread carefully. For now though …” She produced the small vial of blood that Iorveth had given her. “I think it is time we woke our Dragonslayer.”

 

* * *

 

The assembled group filled out Saskia’s quarters completely. Next to Geralt stood Iorveth, their shoulders just barely brushing, as well as Zoltan and Dandelion on his other side, the bard ready with his quill and papers. The _Revival of the Dragonslayer of Aedrin_ would make a magnificent poem, or so he had claimed.

The rest of the crowded space was taken up by a cluster of dwarves, Yarpen and Cecil among them, as well as two Scoia’tael guards at the door and the handful of nobility.

Philippa stood next to the unconscious Saskia. The Virgin lay in her bed, eyelids twitching and her usually browned skin covered in a sheen of sweat and unnatural paleness. Geralt watched in interest as the sorceress worked her magic, invoking words of power to catalyze the dream into magical energy that would disrupt the spreading poison, giving Saskia a draught of Immortelle to drink and finally injecting Stennis’ blood right into her heart.

Saskia gasped, her body shooting up before falling back down into the mattress. Next to him, Iorveth tensed up, muscles jumping. On instinct, Geralt grabbed his hand, holding tight. For a second, Iorveth stilled completely, then relaxed leaning slightly against Geralt’s shoulder in an unusual display of weakness. Geralt kept their hands clasped while Philippa picked a rose petal and put it on her mouth. Slowly, she leaned down and kissed Saskia.

“What is she doing?” Iorveth ground out in annoyance.

Cecil, who due to his height stood right in front of them, turned around with a smirk. “My favorite kind of magic” he said dramatically. “Lesbomancy.” His gaze fell on their joined hands. “And what kind of magic are you two practicing?”

Iorveth immediately tried to pull away, but Geralt didn’t let him. “It’s called holding hands” he told Cecil dryly. “You should try it sometime.”

The dwarf held up his hands in nonchalant surrender, but his reply was interrupted when Saskia moaned loudly and rolled to the side, coughing.

This time, Geralt let Iorveth go as the elf ran to her side, kneeling down next to the bed. “Saskia?” he asked, voice tight with the accumulated anxiety of a week of fretting. He probably didn’t notice the shift in the room, but Geralt did. It was maybe the first time Iorveth had shown real emotion publicly and Geralt watches as this revelation rippled through the room. Philippa was the only one who looked from the elf directly to him.

Geralt instantly knew that their shared moment of intimacy had not been missed. Maybe later, he would regret this casual show of affection for the elven leader, but when Iorveth helped Saskia up and walked her over to Geralt to thank him with a tiny smile on his face, he doubted it.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Saskia wanted to do after waking up from her magically induced coma was naturally to hold a war council, but Iorveth and Philippa managed to persuade her to take at least one night of rest before diving back into matters of politics and war.

He and Geralt left her in Philippa’s capable hands and slowly walked through Vergen, sharing comforting silence. The labyrinthine streets were mostly empty, only a few stragglers passed them on their way to the tavern.

In front of the Cauldron, Geralt made as if to go inside, but Iorveth held him back. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “To sleep. You are welcome to join me, if you want.”

Iorveth quirked a smile. “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

From the sudden dilation of Geralt’s narrow pupils, Iorveth knew his message had been understood, yet the Witcher feigned ignorance. “I don’t think I remember. You’ll have to remind me again.”

“Then follow me” Iorveth said, pulling him along. “We sleep at my place tonight.”

They had barely closed the door to Iorveth’s house before Geralt was on him, pushing him up against the wooden wall, kissing him, thrusting their hips together, licking into Iorveth’s mouth and sucking his tongue.

Iorveth moaned loudly, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of lust and affection he felt for this man whom he three weeks ago had still counted as his enemy. There was nothing gentle about the kisses they shared now. It had been too long since that night in the dark hallway, and they both felt desperate and close to the edge.

Still, Iorveth pulled away, panting and hard. He had made plans, after all.

“Kneel” he rasped. Immediately, the air turned heavy. He saw Geralt swallow, reigning in all those instincts to take charge and lead, pushing them aside to make room for what Iorveth asked of him now.

Complete submission.

Geralt stepped back and went to his knees, hands resting on his muscular thighs. He raised his eyes to Iorveth, full with want and trust, and Iorveth felt hot all over, his cock already straining against his breaches.

“Do you remember your word?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Iorveth leaned forward and spat into Geralt’s face. “What was that?”

Geralt suppressed a shudder, licking away some of the spittle that trailed down the side of his mouth. “Yes, Iorveth.”

“Are there any new limits I should be aware of?”

“No, Iorveth.”

The sound of his name in Geralt’s lusty and slightly amused voice made Iorveth shiver.  “Stand up and take off your clothes.”

Watching Geralt undress for him was just as intoxicating as the first time. Today, Geralt looked even better, rugged and still dirty and bloody in some areas from the fights in the Harpy lair. Iorveth probably looked no better, but once again, Geralt’s sight left no room for patience.

“Good.” Iorveth slowly walked around him, trailing his fingers over Geralt’s exposed skin. His broad shoulders, the hollow spine, his defined abs, the bulge of his thigh, the underside of his balls.

Geralt’s hands twitched, but he did nothing, only breathed heavily while waiting for Iorveth’s next command. Iorveth slowly unwrapped his bandanna and came to a stand in front of Geralt. “If I tap your leg twice, pull out” he said. He knelt down, until Geralt’s thick shaft brushed his lips. “Now fuck my mouth.”

The Witcher didn’t hesitate. His fingers clawed into Iorveth’s hair, pulling him close and forcing his cock down his throat in one slick movement. Iorveth relaxed his throat, straining to open his mouth wide enough to accommodate for Geralt’s girth. He hadn’t given head in a long time, but he quickly found his rhythm and soon Geralt thrust into his mouth as if he was truly fucking him.

The Witcher groaned and closed his eyes, pushing deeper into Iorveth, holding his head steady while he used his mouth for his pleasure. Iorveth’s eyes teared up from the constant pressure, but he didn’t stop Geralt, even fondling his balls and entrance, though he never breached him.

Geralt moaned loudly, his cock swelling. “I’m coming” he panted, fucking Iorveth’s mouth even faster.

Iorveth didn’t let him. The moment he felt Geralt come close to the edge, he grabbed the base of his cock and pressed down, stopping the Witcher from ejaculating. Geralt screamed in frustration, leaning over Iorveth, whose nose was still pressed tightly against Geralt’s pelvis, the white hair tickling his skin and the musky smell turning his insides to liquid fire. When he was sure that Geralt wouldn’t shoot the moment he let go, he ripped off a piece of cloth from Geralt’s discarded shirt that lay right next to the Witchers feet and tied it tightly around Geralt’s base.

He finally pulled away, gagging and coughing, then grinning up smugly at Geralt. “Did I allow you to come?”

Geralt sighed. “No, you didn’t.”

Iorveth stood up, licking away some of the saliva and precum that had built up at the corners of his mouth. “Tonight, you must trust me” he said and lifted up the bandanna. “I will blindfold you now.”

Geralt hesitated a moment. Iorveth understood, which was why he had voiced his intentions. Geralt’s paranoia was well-founded and not to be underestimated. But finally, the Witcher nodded his assent and closed his eyes. Iorveth tied the red piece of cloth tightly around Geralt’s eyes, then gave his flushed cock a few sharp strokes. Geralt hissed, grabbing Iorveth’s hand in instinct. He immediately drew away as if burned.

“Did I give you permission to touch me?” Iorveth asked quietly.

“No, Iorveth.”

“Should I leave you here like this as punishment?”

A hint of honest fear crept into Geralt’s voice at this proposal. “No, Iorveth.”

“Another punishment then.” Iorveth walked towards Geralt, stroking his cock again, slower this time, and nuzzling against Geralt neck. “But I warn you. One more disobedience and I will tie you up and leave you like this till morning.”

“Yes, Iorveth.”

“Good. Stay like this.”

While Geralt did as told, Iorveth rummaged through his things until he found a bundle of soft rope. He used it for traps usually, but it would do nicely. With practiced ease, he tied Geralt’s hands together in front of his body, then did the same to his lower arms, until Geralt had no way of separating the two. At his wrists, he tied a lead, with which he pulled Geralt forward, who almost stumbled.

“Follow me” he said, and led Geralt through the room, and to the door. He felt Geralt slowing down, until the lead rope was pulled taut. “Have you forgotten what I said?” Iorveth inquired. “You have no more chances left. Obey, or suffer until morning.”

“Are we going outside?”

“You know where this door leads.”

Geralt swallowed thickly, but he started walking again. With a smile, Iorveth turned around and pushed open the door. The air outside was cool and fresh, a wind picking up and blowing in from the north. Behind him, Geralt shivered, completely naked, tied up and blindfolded, his cock bound as if with a ribbon and standing straight up.

Iorveth looked around. The Scoia’tael were asleep or on guard in and outside the city, as expected. He led Geralt through the cluster of houses, and to the balustrade over which one had a perfect view of Vergen proper. He pulled Geralt forward until the Witcher stood right in front of the stone railing, his cock just peeking through under the rim. Iorveth leaned against him from behind, kissing his way down from Geralt’s neck to the small of his back, kneading his legs and ass and spreading his legs wider with his hands until Geralt stood completely exposed for him, in perfect sight of any nightly passerby.

Iorveth undid the laces of his trousers, freeing his cock and stroking it a few times, before sliding it between Geralt’s open legs. While he thrust into the Witcher’s thighs and against his balls, he leaned against Geralt from behind and stroked his cock in earnest.

Geralt’s pants turned ragged. Iorveth was sure he would already have come if not for the bindings and to know that what he did drove Geralt slowly insane made him want to mess him up even more.

“I thought you would finally … use your cock” Geralt managed between clenched teeth. “As much as I enjoy … not being able to come … I’d much rather have you inside me.”

“I’m getting to that part” Iorveth promised, easing up a bit on his hand movements to give Geralt a short respite. “I only thought you might enjoy an audience when I do.”

It was as if Geralt suddenly remembered just where he stood naked and exposed with his cock straining against its bindings. A visible shudder went through his body. Iorveth quickly realized why.

Below them in the market streets, an elf climbed out of the window of one of human enclave houses. In his effort to remain undetected, he looked around, spotting Geralt high above him. The elf froze, as did Geralt, before Iorveth pressed his thumb against his entrance and pushed inside.

Geralt moaned loudly, a trickle of precum dripping to the stones below. The elf took one last, hard look, recognized Iorveth, and bolted in the opposite direction.

Geralt’s harsh breathing turned into a throaty laugh. “Subordinate of yours?” he inquired while Iorveth slicked up two fingers with oil.

“His name is Ki’rael” Iorveth confirmed, thrusting both fingers into Geralt, who doubled over in pleasure. “And I will have a _long_ …” He pulled out and pushed. “… And _hard_ …” Again. “… Conversation with him about what it means to _follow orders_. Geralt, did you just come?”

The Witcher’s legs had almost given out beneath him and from his quivering voice, Iorveth knew he was right. “Bastard ...”

“A dry orgasm? My, Geralt, you flatter me.” He lazily kept up thrusting into Geralt, not yet concerned about hitting his prostate every time, only brushing lightly against it. To Geralt, who had just come and was highly sensitive, it was like torture.

Just as the Witcher let out an especially loud groan, followed by a colorful curse, Iorveth spotted their next audience.

“You cannot see him” he murmured against Geralt’s ear, “but there is a young man down there and he seems in quite a hurry to lose his pants. Would you like to give him a show?”

Geralt didn’t answer, just panted in time with Iorveth’s finger movements.

“Geralt?” Iorveth asked again, halting his fingers. He didn’t think he had pushed Geralt over the edge yet, but he had to be sure. “Do you need your word?”

“Blasted elf” Geralt said, leaning forward more so that his cock peaked cleanly through the opening in the railing and presenting his spread ass cheeks perfectly to Iorveth, who licked his lips, heat burning low in his belly and balls. “Just _fuck_ me already.”

Iorveth smiled, slicking up his cock with oil. “As you wish.”

 

* * *

 

Geralt’s body was on fire. He saw nothing, could only feel the cool night air on his sweaty body, Iorveth’s cock slowly breaching his loosened opening, splitting him open for all to see. The young man below was panting, the slapping sound of his hand penetrating the night.

Geralt was beyond staying silent himself. As Iorveth finally stretched him open completely, it was all he could do to stay on his feet, his own cock an aching, dripping mess. When Iorveth had buried himself to the hilt and hit Geralt’s prostate dead-on for the first time this evening, he lost himself in the fierce, lightning pleasure.

Even to his own ears, he sounded positively wracked. Iorveth drove into him again and again, deep and hard and without ever touching his cock, just snapping his hips forward and holding Geralt tight in a bruising grip, while he slowly took Geralt apart.

“Iorveth!” Geralt half collapsed against the railing, his cock chafing against stone and dripping precum to the ground deep below. Another hard thrust had him reeling and coming dry again, his balls tightening and his cock full to bursting, but it wasn’t enough and he cried out in frustration, cursing, begging, everything all at once, until Iorveth slowed down enough for him to take a few ragged breaths and try again. “T-take it off, Iorveth, I beg you, please …”

Iorveth stroked his spine, driving sharp fingernails into his skin and dragging them down slowly. “Since you begged so nicely” he whispered, hot cock filling Geralt so completely that he wondered how he could ever function again without it, “I’ll take it off.”

And with a swift movement, he untied the bandanna from Geralt’s eyes.

Geralt’s sight immediately focused on the three people that stood watching him in the street, two of them whispering in hushed tones and pointing at him, while the last one was  still chasing his climax, jerking off desperately.

“That one enjoys you quite a lot” Iorveth said, slapping Geralt’s ass. “Who knew the White Wolf was into this kind of thing?”

Without a cock fucking him out of his mind, Geralt’s head cleared enough for him to feel mortification. These were people he would meet again on the streets, for as long as he stayed here. He might even work for them at some point. To know that they had seen him like this out in the open was almost too much. And yet, the bigger part inside him thought about how Iorveth had dominated him, had made him come out here naked and bound and blindfolded, completely defenseless and fucked him in front of these people, deliberately presenting him in his most vulnerable state to strangers, and how incredibly turned on he was by this.

With a shudder, he gave himself over, pressing back against Iorveth to signal him that he was ready for the rest. “Finish me” he rasped, making eye contact with the youth that was still jacking off to him. “Make me cum while they watch.”

Iorveth kissed his back, his shoulders, biting into his neck. “With pleasure.”

He started his rhythm up again, and Geralt completely let himself fall. At some point, his bare knees hit the hard ground, unable to bear his weight any longer. Iorveth went down with him to keep fucking him into oblivion.

Finally, after Geralt was sure he would die from the sheer need to spend, Iorveth reached around him and undid the binding. He came before the strip of cloth had fully left his skin, shooting his cum onto the street below, watching through hooded eyelids as the youth came into his hand, spraying his exposed chest with white cum.

He sagged, feeling Iorveth come inside him, scalding hot seed filling his insides and his last lazy thrusts lighting his prostate on fire.

“Ciri” he muttered, his voice a raw mess. “Ciri. No more, please. No more.”

Immediately, the thick shaft pulled out, leaving him gaping and with cum trickling out his hole and down his leg. A jacket fell over him, shielding him from further gazes. Iorveth pulled him close, hugging him tightly from behind and holding him together when Geralt thought he must surely fall apart any second. He could feel Iorveth’s heart racing in time with his own, and to his own surprise felt a few tears flowing from the corners of his eyes.

He was done.

“You were amazing, Geralt” Iorveth whispered, carefully undoing the ropes tying Geralt’s arms together while never breaking their hug. “Rest now. I will take things from here.”

Geralt closed his eyes, leaning against Iorveth and nodding weakly. “Thank you” he mumbled. Then he dropped into darkness.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth opens up to Geralt. Saskia prepares for war.

Geralt awoke warm and cozy with a naked elf in his arms. That in itself was surprising enough. Even though they had shared a bed at night since coming back from the forest, Iorveth had always found a reason to get up early and leave his side before he had a chance to wake up, be it sharpening his blades or fletching new arrows and oiling his giant bow.

But this morning, not only was Iorveth still in bed, he was also sound asleep, his quiet breathing filling the air of the bedroom. Geralt did not remember coming back here, or ever entering this room for that matter, but that was not surprising. What he and Iorveth had done yesterday … it still didn’t feel quite real.

He knew it had happened, of course. His wrists, or what he could see of them, were covered in rope-shaped bruises and his ass felt incredibly sore. He was just as glad that today Saskia had only planned meetings and that he was not expected to sit down in them.

As for said meeting, Geralt was fairly sure they should already be on their way, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Trading in a defenseless and sleepy Iorveth for a bunch of bickering nobles did not sound like his kind of good morning.

Careful not to wake the elf, he shifted closer until they were pressed together the whole length of their bodies. He needn’t have bothered. The moment he moved an inch beneath the blankets, Iorveth tensed up, only relaxing when his good eye found Geralt’s face.

“We’re late” he mumbled, tilting his head back a bit so he could see Geralt better.

“Good” Geralt said. “I intend to miss as much of this council meeting as I can.”

“That’s a relief then.” Iorveth sagged against him fully, pulling Geralt’s arm taut around his chest. “I will tell them you physically restrained me, despite my hardest efforts to get free.”

Geralt gave a satisfied smirk. “I can live with that. Sounds better than _was too sore to move and frankly did not care_.”

Iorveth immediately turned around to him, a note of worry in his eyes. “Did I overdo it last night?” he asked. “I was sure you would enjoy it, and you got pretty into it once we started, but it was still intense.”

“Iorveth” Geralt said, “that was the most amazing orgasm I ever had. It’s not what I expected to happen when you brought me here, but I enjoyed it more than you can imagine. Of course I’m sore after that, but it’s not too bad. I would have given my word much sooner if I didn’t like it.”

“ _Ciri_ ” Iorveth said. “What does it mean?”

“It’s my daughter’s name. Adoptive daughter” he clarified when Iorveth furrowed his brow. “She’s far away right now, but she’s …” He stopped, choking on the sudden grief he felt.

“She’s dear to you” Iorveth finished for him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with that expression.”

“We trained her at Kaer Morhen” Geralt agreed. “I barely remember anything, only that I was truly happy back then. Is there someone who made you feel that way?”

Iorveth’s gaze shuttered.

“My mother” he said in a low voice. “She had the most beautiful smile in the world. I always tried to make her laugh, even if it got me into trouble.” He laughed, but it sounded like he was in pain. “That was a long time ago. I can barely remember her voice anymore.”

Geralt sat up slightly, giving Iorveth space to speak. “What happened?”

The elf exhaled, dropping his gaze to the blanket. “We lived in one of the slums, in what you now call Old Wyzima, though back then, it was just Wyzima. We were dirt poor. My father and some other elfs did work out in the swamps where the humans did not dare venture. He was barely home, but he brought back money enough to feed us and when he had time, he taught me elven culture and languages. He firmly believed that we would reclaim our former glory by first adapting to the new world, fitting in with the dh’oine, that they would see into our hearts and welcome us into their society.” Iorveth’s laugh turned brittle. “He was a fool of course. My mother knew we would never be accepted like that, but she loved him too much to tell him the truth. Then came the hardest winter in a hundred years. Fevers ran high in the city, food became scarce, people were begging on the streets, and my mother got sick. My father had to work even more to pay for her medicine, but the doctor in the city took exorbitant sums from non-humans, so when we started going hungry, my mother forced him to stop paying the doctor and buy food for me instead. She got worse quickly.”

Geralt held his breath, feeling like he was free-falling. Thanks to his amnesia, he didn’t remember his own mother, but what Iorveth told him cut deep. Here now was the pain that turned a small elven boy into the most feared Scoia’tael leader in the Northern Realms. “Did she recover?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.

Iorveth shook his head. “Winter turned into spring, but it stayed horribly cold. We could barely feed ourselves and keep warm at the same time, never mind paying for the medicine, so my father went to the doctor again, begging him for aid. He was denied, like all the other non-humans clogging his door. Dh’oine pulled him out onto the streets and beat him so he wouldn’t return, but he did, everyday. Until one day, they kept beating him until he didn’t get up anymore. I was too young then to get revenge, and my mother didn’t let me leave her side for fear they would turn on me next. She died soon afterwards.”

Iorveth’s gaze was fixed on the ceiling now, far away with the memory of his mother, and Geralt let him stay there for a while, waiting until Iorveth started speaking again in a matter-of-fact voice.

“I found myself alone and without protection in a city that hated my kind. Another elven couple took me in or I wouldn’t have survived the following years. The older I got, the more my anger consumed me, but by then, the doctor had died himself, and I didn’t know who had killed my father. So I reigned myself in, wanting to believe in the world my father had wished for. Now _I_ was the fool.”

Iorveth tapped the scar of his eye socket. “Then this happened, and you know the rest. I left the city behind and joined the Scoia’tael. I learned to fight, to lead units under Isengrim’s command. After Drakenborg, I filled the void left by his absence. And now here we are.”

Geralt didn’t know what to say. He had never heard Iorveth talk so much about himself, least of all from his childhood, and any words of comfort he might have said rang false. Instead, he gently tucked Iorveth’s dark hair behind his ear and kissed his scar.

The elf stiffened, pulling away, but Geralt followed his movements until he lay draped over him, holding down both his wrists so Iorveth couldn’t struggle while he trailed a path of kisses from the corner of his mouth to his missing eye.

Iorveth hissed in annoyance. “Why are you doing that?” he demanded. Geralt stopped and looked into the elf’s one good eye, green as moss in a dark forest.

“Because I want to” he said. “Why won’t you let me?” Iorveth pressed his lips together, but Geralt didn’t let go. “No answer?”

“It’s ugly” Iorveth grunted, twisting his head away. “They ruined my face and I don’t like to remember it.”

“Ruined?” Geralt pulled back, letting the covers fall from his shoulders and baring his scar-covered chest. “Am I ruined then?”

Iorveth pushed himself up on his elbows. “Of course not. You are stunning. But mine—“

“Are to me just as beautiful as mine are to you” Geralt interrupted. “You are a survivor, Iorveth. This scar, and everything else that happened, made you into the person you are. What did you say to me back in Flotsam? _I am who I need to be._ That’s the elf I decided to trust, to share my bed with, because he is fierce and loyal and strong and surprisingly quite the idealist.”

Iorveth scoffed, but he sounded more amused then angry now and let himself fall back into the covers. “And they say you have no feelings” he muttered.

“They say you have no heart” Geralt said, leaning down again and pressing his palm flat against Iorveth chest, feeling the strong and quickening beat. “But we know better, don’t we.”

Iorveth’s fingers tailed down Geralt’s naked back, gently caressing his skin. “I guess we do.”

 

* * *

 

“Look who finally decided to swing their asses over here” Zoltan greeted them as they arrived in the council chamber some time later. Saskia was currently leaning over a giant map spread out over the roundtable, but looked up when they entered. “Iorveth, Geralt” she said, straightening. Iorveth tried not to feel shame for arriving so late and instead gave the Virgin a curt nod.

“I will make this brief, as it seems that you are quite preoccupied at the moment” Saskia said in her calm and authoritative voice that drew the masses to her. “We shall start the war as soon as the fog has cleared. Geralt, you will need to work together with Philippa. As I understand it, the ingredients are now assembled?”

“They are” the sorceress agreed. “Your sword was the last of them, the Symbol of Hate. Vandergrift’s weapon.”

“Excellent. Lift the curse with all haste; we have no time to lose. Yarpen and Zoltan, I want you to lead the training of the new recruits. We cannot spare any that are old and strong enough to hold a sword.”

“Aye!”

Finally, her piercing gaze slid over to him. “Iorveth, I understand your Scoia’tael are still not here. I hope they are simply idling, but we cannot take chances. Take some of your men and find the missing units. Without them, our strategy is in shambles.”

Iorveth opened his mouth to protest, but held himself back. This was a direct command by his leader, whom he had sworn his loyalty to. Wanting to stay close to Geralt while he lifted a deadly curse was no good reason to deny her.

“As you wish, Dragonslayer” he said, giving her a tiny bow. From his lowered position, he glanced at Geralt, who stood tall and strong and utterly still.

“Geralt, come to my house when you have said goodbye” Philippa said, drawing the attention of Saskia, who threw a quick glance between the two of them. “We must discuss our course of action.”

“I will be there” Geralt said, turning around and leaving the council room. Iorveth followed after it became clear that he was dismissed as well, listening to the hushed whispers of some of the nobles. It seemed Philippa had found out about their relationship much quicker than expected.

He should have been worried about such intimate knowledge being in the hands of a sorceress powerful enough to destroy him with the wave of her hand, but all that he could think about was that he had to leave Vergen and Geralt behind, and that he could not be sure if the Witcher would still be alive when he returned with Cáerme.

“Don't look so grim” Geralt reprimanded him when they stood alone in the torch-lit hallway. “I've defeated worse than a draug.”

“A draug?”

“An arch-wraith. It will probably be waiting in the middle of the battlefield once all the Symbols are assembled. I need to defeat it to lift the curse.”

Iorveth shook off his thoughts of Geralt dying a gruesome death. The man was a Witcher, strong and intelligent and careful. He would not die just like that. “Take care” he said, stepping closer until he could press against Geralt's broad chest, kissing him slowly and deeply, tasting him, feeling the flush of heat coursing through his body.

“You too” Geralt murmured between sloppy kisses, caressing his ear. “Auckes and Letho are still out there, so be careful. Find your Scoia'tael as soon as you can and try to be back before the battle is over.”

“I wouldn't want to miss my chance to kill dh'oine again” Iorveth said, pulling back with a small grin. “Leave some for me, will you.”

“You can have them all if you want. I'll take a nap, maybe prepare some dinner.”

“You can cook?”

“Maybe not dinner then. Wine?”

Iorveth shook his head in silent laughter. “Wine it is.” As he stepped away, he had the weirdest impulse. He wanted to say something more, something that conveyed to Geralt just how much the Witcher had come to mean to him, but try as he might, he couldn't get the words past his lips. Geralt stood there, obviously fighting the same feeling. In the end, they just brushed hands one last time before parting completely.

Iorveth left.

And when he turned around, he saw Geralt watching him with affection and sorrow in his eyes until he left his view.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt fights the draug. Iorveth meets someone unexpected in the forest.

Geralt knocked back the Swallow he had brewed and faced down the supernatural fog that curled lazily around his boots. The liquid burned down his throat, spreading heat in his belly and quickening his heartrate. His eyes tracked the movements behind the gray curtain. The wind had picked up in the narrow ravine that led into the cursed battlefield, just as if it sensed the danger and crackling magic in the air.

After a last discussion of plans with Philippa and the battle-eager Saskia, he was finally ready to lift the curse. The Scoia’tael that used to patrol this mountain path were gone. Some had relocated to the city, helping with battle preparations, while others had left with Iorveth two days prior.

Geralt ignored the sharp sting of this knowledge, ignored too the foreboding feeling in his gut that told him something bad was going to happen. Trying to focus, he hefted his silver sword, the blade glistening with freshly prepared specter oil, and stepped forward.

Compared to the other time when they had ventured inside the mist under Philippa’s protection, nothing attacked him. Cold enveloped his chest, making it hard to breathe, and frost gathered in the tips of his hair. Instead of fighting the sensation, he embraced it, knowing it meant the magic had started.

He walked deeper inside, until all he could see was blue tinged fog. An eerie, pregnant quiet followed him, pressing down from all sides, until a piercing scream cut through the silence.

Geralt spun around, suddenly surrounded by fighting corpses, snarling and screaming, their weapons clanking together. He lifted his own sword, but was knocked forward by a shockwave. With a gasp, he found himself on his knees, wearing the tired body of a kaedweni soldier. A sword slashed down towards him and he quickly lifted his own, blocking the blow with the last of his strength. Trying to hold his own against the much larger Aedirnian, he slowly got to his feet. He fought hard, despite his disadvantages. His body felt sluggish and immobile, the armor too heavy. His signs did not work.

Blow after blow rained down on him, until a well-aimed slash from the side knocked the helmet from his head and threw Geralt down. Before he could land in the dust though, his vision shifted, showing him a narrow pathway while fire rained down from the sky.

“Follow the priest!” someone behind him bellowed. Geralt looked around, searching for the priest, until he noticed the swishing of a robe around his legs. Despite the cumbersome clothing, he stumbled forward, breath coming in gasps. His ankle pulsed fiercely with pain, and his body was old and frail. He had just taken a sharp left around a boulder when fire exploded right in front of him.

The blistering heat was enough to throw him backwards with a scream, thumping to the ground and immediately finding himself in yet another body, a tiny messenger with iron on his tongue. He looked up, fear in his heart, up and up, until he saw _him_.

Above him towered the biggest man he had ever seen, a mountain of muscle and wild, dark hair. Vandergrift stared him down, growing in size, his face distorting into a mask of wooden splinters and fire, body covered in melted swords and shrapnel.

The draug roared, spitting fire at Geralt whose borrowed body melted away.

Another swap. Geralt instantly knew that this time he inhabited a real warrior’s body. Seltkirk felt strong and agile, despite the armor, and Geralt’s heart sang with triumph not his own and a burning desire to fight and prove his prowess.

As Seltkirk, he slew his enemies with ease, cutting them down one after another like sheep, blood roaring in fierce joy. Some distance away, he heard Vandergrift shouting his name. The closer he got, the more his enemie's cries of challenge deepened and roughened, until his voice sounded like it could shatter the earth.

He wanted to stay like this, wanted to fight his rival, but Geralt ripped himself free from Seltkirk’s desires and so too from his body.

He looked at the knight. Skin and flesh had rotted away, leaving behind a blank skull with unseeing eyes.

“I wish to fight him” Seltkirk demanded, brandishing his sword. “He is _mine_.”

“You cannot win” Geralt said. He felt dizzy from so many body changes, and the magic that saturated the air like electricity before a thunderstorm didn’t help, but he managed not to sway. “You tried and died, and since then you have failed again and again in death.”

“I can defeat him this time” Seltkirk argued. “I know it! I am Seltkirk of Gulet, I will not lose to Vandergrift!”

“But you _will_ lose” Geralt tried again, grabbing Seltkirk’s collar and shaking him. “Your pride is keeping your soldiers stuck in this wasteland. They will never find peace if you do not let go and break this cycle. Vandergrift is not who he once was. He is not even a man anymore. Let _me_ deal with him.”

Seltkirk stared him down. He looked around, seeing maybe for the first time the senseless slaughter that had never ended since the battle in which he died. He lowered his weapon, sighing in defeat. “So be it.”

His eyes shriveled into nothing, and while his body fell to ashes, Geralt drew his sword and followed the bellowing screams of the draug.

 

 

* * *

 

Iorveth looked down from the treetop into the hidden clearing which he knew Cáerme had used before as a stronghold in this forest. The woods were deserted, squirrels bustling through the tree-tops, a lone deer trotting through dense thickets.

He gave a low hooting sound, signaling Ki'rael that they were alone. The counter sign sounded through the night, shrill and piercing. Iorveth dropped from his crouch on the tree down onto the wet grass, looking around. His Scoia'tael quickly followed, emerging from between the trees.

“No signs?” Ki'rael asked, who reached him first. Iorveth shook his head, regarding the elf. He had feared Ki'rael would lose his respect for him after seeing Geralt and Iorveth outside fucking, but instead it seemed to have strengthened the bond he felt towards him. Or maybe it was just fear of being punished for the dalliance with his human woman. Iorveth didn't care. From all the Scoia'tael that had survived Flotsam, Ki'rael was his best fighter, and if he wasn't always obedient, he did what needed to be done when it counted.

“There is another camp, further south” he explained as Illain and Enril caught up to them. “I was sure they must have cleared it already, but it seems Cáerme ran into problems on her way. We should—”

“HELP!”

They whirled around as one, finding a crouched figure running towards them. Bows lifted immediately, but Iorveth held up his hand, recognizing their newcomer. “Hold” he ordered, stepping forward. “I know you. Theo, isn't it? Cáerme's human pet.”

The young boy came to a halt, fighting for breath. Iorveth quickly took in his condition. Scrapes and cuts littered his face and uncovered arms, his dark hair was a wild mess, and he looked harrowed, as if he had run for days without food or sleep.

“Iorveth” Theo said, lifting his head. His eyes shone with suppressed tears. “He has Cáerme.”

Ice travelled down Iorveth's back and into his belly. “Who has her?”

“The man you warned us about. The witcher, Letho. He came some days ago, hit us hard in the night. He killed the guards, then snuck into Cáerme's tent and took her hostage. None of us dared attack for fear he would kill her.”

“How did you escape?”

Theo shook his head. “I didn't. He sent me. And if I don't bring you to him by sundown tomorrow, her life is forfeit.”

He sank down to his knees, pressing his forehead to the wet ground. “Please, come with me. She has no time.”

“How do I know you are not lying?” Iorveth asked, drawing his sword and pressing the sharp side of the blade against Theo's neck. “That you didn't make a pact with Letho to lead us into his trap in exchange for your life?”

“Then kill me and be sure” Theo said immediately, looking up to him. “If she dies, my life means nothing. That I do not lead you into a trap, I cannot promise, only that I am not doing it out of selfish desire.”

Iorveth stared down the youth a moment longer before sheathing his sword again and helping Theo to his feet. "Drink something, then we leave. And while we run, I want to know how a dh'oine became Cáerme's lover.”

 

* * *

 

Geralt smelled burned wood and smoke as he arrived on the battlefield. The draug was huge, easily fifteen feet high and with an equally enormous sword. Ash choked the air, and thunder growled in the distance. Geralt drew his silver blade, rolling his stiff shoulders. His leg was still sore, which was not the best condition he had ever been in, but also not nearly the worst. He gripped the blade harder, stepping forward.

The draug finally noticed him, turning its body until they stood facing each other. The clang of steel rang loudly, mixing with the sound of the coming storm. Rain pelted down, soaking Geralt to the bone.

“Time to die, creature” Geralt snared and ran forward. The draug roared at him, lifting the sword and smashing it down in his direction. Geralt dodged to the side, jumping to his feet and getting in a short strike before a whirlwind of fire threw him back, shattering his quickly cast Quen.

Again and again they danced like this, Geralt attacking lightning quick between an onslaught of fire, steel and arrows raining down from the sky. One nicked his thigh, another pierced the armor of his shoulder, hindering his movements. Geralt threw himself to the ground as another storm of fire enveloped the draug, rolling away and getting back up. With a scream, Geralt ducked beneath the huge sword swinging his way, whirling in the air and embedding his oil-coated blade in the creatures back. Blisters rose on his hands and cheekbones, singing his hair.

The fire died down. Pieces of wood and metal rained down as the draug fell apart with a scream that drowned out all other sounds. Geralt stared at his handiwork long enough to register the pain he was in, before his vision darkened and he crashed to the ground.

 

* * *

 

They reached the camp just before sundown the next day. Theo had given up sometime this morning after Iorveth had pressed on through the night and accepted the offer to be carried. Illain was not much bigger than Iorveth, but bulkier and stronger, and did not utter a single sound of complaint when he was ordered to carry the boy. Then again, Theo probably weighed less than some of the bounty they had taken off careless merchants.

Still, it slowed them down considerably, and so they only just made it in time.

Iorveth took in the camp quickly. Some of the tents had been thrown over, the look-out posts in the treetops seemed deserted. The Scoia'tael milled around the campside, lost and hopeless. A couple of fresh graves had been dug a bit off to the side, next to an old oak.

“He waits in that tent” Theo said, pointing at a construction slightly bigger than the others, but nonetheless shabby. Iorveth walked past his brethren, grinding his teeth at the sight of so much fear. How were these elfs and dwarfs supposed to decide a battle when they couldn't even fight back against one enemy?

Inside the tent, he was alone. At least, that was what he thought. The next moment, a shadow shot forward, throwing him to the ground and pressing him down into the earth.

“And so we meet again” Letho drawled, sitting down on Iorveth's back and holding down his wrists with inhuman strength. “I must admit, I didn't expect you to survive this long. Tell me, why did Geralt not kill you in exchange for Triss? What did you do to make him protect you? ”

“I sucked his cock” Iorveth spat, squirming beneath Letho. “Where is Cáerme? What do you want with her?”

“Nothing, really.” Letho repositioned so that Iorveth felt his lungs getting crushed, his breath turning flat. “She is simply a bargaining tool. A leader like yourself, one of the few free elfs left in the world. They don't want to see her die, and neither do you it seems. So I will propose to you a bargain. Your death no longer has significance. I could easily kill you here, but you have more value to me alive now that Geralt is so interested in you. I will let Cáerme live, and will even send all her Scoia'tael back with you to Vergen, right the moment you leave this camp, under one condition.”

“And which one would that be?” Iorveth scoffed.

“The same bargain I made Geralt. But perhaps you are more amenable to it.” Letho leaned forward, his lips almost brushing Iorveth's ear. “A life for a life. What do you say?”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Siege of Vergen begins. Geralt learns a secret.

Geralt shot up, panting harshly and staring around. He lay in a bed, bandages covering his arms and upper body and a fire crackled in the hearth. He recognized Philippa’s house by the precariously stacked tomes and littered spellbooks and relaxed enough to sink back down into the mattress, waiting for his heart to calm.

He still remembered his dreams, so vivid as if they were real. Letho, the Witcher that had killed King Demavend and King Foltest, the man that had indirectly been responsible for the slaughter of Iorveth’s unit and kidnapped Triss, was not a stranger after all.

He was an old friend. Geralt had saved his life.

And now they tried to kill each other.

Sighing, Geralt got up and massaged his stiff muscles. He noticed his armor and swords next to a table, together with a bowl of cold soup and some sourly smelling wine.

Geralt grabbed the wine and drank deeply, washing away the taste of decay and ashes that his fight with the draug had left there, and buckled on his belt and armor. From outside, he could hear hectic calls and smell the fear of new recruits. Henselt’s army had to be close.

He gulped down some soup and went outside. The sun was high up already, its heat being blown away by the cold mountain wind. Geralt fought his way through the trails of dwarfs in battle-gear, past the barricades that had been erected and into the loudest fray that had, not too surprisingly, Zoltan and Yarpen at its center.

“Geralt!” he was greeted immediately by his friends, Yarpen adding to this a big slap across his back. “Finally woke up, aye?” the dwarf asked, grinning broadly.

“Where’s Saskia?” Geralt asked, looking around. “And Philippa?”

“Counceling, I reckon” Zoltan said. “Sitting down with ye noble nobility, talking strategy when all we have to do is keep this damn gate close. But why do I bother.”

“Dandelion is back at the inn?”

“Last I saw him he was consulting the maid about his new pet project. A hymn for the free-folk of Vergen or some such. Though maybe, if we’re victorious, the _free-folk_ will be too drunk to care about his stupid rhymes.”

Geralt nodded and left the dwarfs alone, climbing up one of the fortification that let him get a look out over the city walls. As suspected, Henselt’s army had drawn close. They filled out the ravine completely, standing just shy of the archer mark and waiting for the fight to begin. Vergen’s only advantage against their huge numbers was the narrow way up to the gate. If they managed to hold them before they flooded the city, they might just survive the day.

Still, without Iorveth’s archers, their options looked grim. Geralt looked around in annoyance. Where was the blasted elf? Surely four days was enough time to find some hundred Scoia’tael and escort them back to the city.

Unless something had happened.

Geralt shook the thought of immediately, but it lingered, persistently clinging to the back of his mind, the whole way back down to the city proper and up until he ran into Saskia.

The Dragonslayer was in full armor, the black metal burnished to a sheen, her sword swinging from her hip. “Witcher” she greeted him. “Are you quite recovered? Philippa bade me leave you sleep as long as possible, or I would have asked you to join the meeting.”

“I’ve been worse” Geralt said, fiercely thankful to Philippa, whatever her motivations. “Any word from Iorveth?”

Saskia’s face turned grim. “No. I have postponed the battle as much as I can, but there is no more time left. Henselt has sent a messenger this morning. If I do not surrender the city and return to my _womanly duties_ by midday, he will raze Vergen to the ground. Or so he says. I fear cannot delay any longer.”

Geralt nodded, dread heavy in his stomach. What had happened? Iorveth was strong, a great fighter, both with the bow and his swords, but he still missed one finger and may not have been as recovered as he pretended. And if it had been a trap?

“I want to thank you for fighting with us” Saskia continued and pulled Geralt out of his thoughts. “As a witcher, I know you value neutrality. That is why I wish to ask you, why are you helping us? I heard from Philippa that Triss is not here anymore. You gain nothing by taking part in this fight.”

Geralt shook his head. “You are mistaken. I tried to stay neutral before, that is true. But I have learned in recent years that sometimes we have to fight for the things we value, and I value this place more than you think.”

Before she could answer, he walked past her, back towards the battlements. Even with Iorveth gone, he could fight for his dream, for a peaceful life.

There was a battle to win.

 

* * *

 

“RETREAT!” screamed Saskia, waving her sword towards the second ring. “SEAL THEM IN!”

Geralt slashed another Kaedweni through the neck and blasted a second with Aard to throw him from the battlements into death, then slowly wove his way backwards, fighting and blocking the whole way until the next wave of opponents had ebbed away. Through the second gate into the inner city they went, reinforcing the barricades behind them.

With an eye on Zoltan who so far had not had been injured too badly, Geralt made his way towards Saskia who stood close together with Yarpen and a human noble discussing the state of battle in hushed tones.

“Are you sure?” Saskia asked just as Geralt came close enough to pick up her voice over the clamor of thousands of soldiers.

“I am, Dragonslayer” the noble said. “We sent the scouts in well over two hours ago and they still haven’t returned. The kaedweni pigs must have found the mines.”

“Then there is no other way” Saskia said. “I will go personally and deal with them.”

The noble paled. “Dragonslayer, you cannot—”

“And why not, Hoven? Henselt’s men lick their wounds, now is the time to strike. So long as we do not get attacked from two sides, our formation will hold.”

“It is too dangerous …”

“Since when have you known me to avoid danger? Witcher, will you come?”

Geralt snorted, folding his arms. “To kill some more Kaedweni? Lead on.”

Without waiting for more protests from Saskia’s council, they jogged towards the castle. “There are tunnels connecting all the mines with the keep” Saskia explained on their way. “I had not thought the knowledge in Henselt’s hands, but clearly I was mistaken. We must deal with this threat swiftly or risk being trapped.”

Geralt nodded, following the Virgin through a narrow entrance and deeper into the mountain. The air instantly turned cold and moldy, torches flickering on the walls and spitting as they passed them. They had barely rounded the first corner when five armed men stormed towards them. Saskia raised her shield, blocking and countering the first attack while Geralt threw on a Quen defense, then dashed forward to slash and whirl his way through the other four. They quickly dispatched the small force, and Saskia shot him an impressed look. “In close quarters one appreciates your abilities even more” she said, then went ahead before Geralt could respond. She opened a rotten looking wooden door with a key and stepped through.

As Geralt followed, he quickly noticed the dots of fire bobbing up and down in the distance. Chatter carried on the breeze towards him. “They are here” he growled, nodding towards the torchlight. Saskia nodded grimly.

“I feared as much.”

“What is this?” one of the figures in front asked as they stepped closer. Geralt furrowed his brow. The man was clearly a sorcerer, ugly as sin and wearing a smug smile. After a moment, he realized he knew the man. Detmold. Henselt’s trusty sorcerer. “Brave Vergen fights a hopeless battle and its leader has come down to the caves for a tryst with the witcher. Does the Virgin’s cherry ache, one wonders, so close to death?” The smile vanished. “Kill them!”

Geralt had just enough time to roll aside as Detmold called down a strike of lightning that exploded in the stone right where Geralt had been a moment earlier. Saskia lifted her shield and sword, fighting with the back to the wall. With a silent curse, Geralt stared down their opponents, two dozen strong and led by a mage. Their chances were slim.

He chugged a potion, feeling the pulse of his heart with every movement, and threw himself into battle. Quickly, he eased into a mindless state of slashing, ducking and casting signs. He cut down his enemies like scarecrows, but there seemed to be flooding more and more into the mine until he and Saskia found themselves completely isolated, back to back.

“What now, Witcher?” Saskia panted.

“Getting out alive would be nice” Geralt answered dryly, before screaming when Detmold’s magic hit them from the side, a blast of fire enveloping him and Saskia. He fell to the ground, rolling out the flames, but the soldiers didn’t stay idly by and the next thing he knew, he was surrounded by a forest of swords. Geralt tried to lift his hand to cast a sign, but a heavy boot trapped his wrist.

“Goodbye” Detmold said cheerfully.

A flash of light filled the cave. Geralt looked up just in time to see the equally surrounded Saskia glowing golden and growing in size, until she filled out half the cave.

“Saskia?” he whispered in amazement as the light fell down in a thousand shiny shards and revealed the form of a giant dragon with golden-brown scales and fangs as long as legs.

Detmold stumbled backwards, followed by all the soldiers that suddenly found themselves being trampled and grabbed by mighty claws. Geralt stood up, wincing at the pain in his wrist and lifted his sword. Detmold made a gesture, creating a portal behind himself, but he was too late. Saskia’s jaws ripped through his body, blood spurting and dripping to the ground. A sweep of her tail, and the rest of the soldiers lay dead on the cold stone floor. Geralt stared at the carnage his leader had wrecked. When he turned back around, Saskia stood in front of him, wiping blood from her chin.

“I did not intend for you to find out this way” Saskia said. “Or at all, to be truthful. But I had no choice. So now you know.”

“That’s why you survived the poisoning. As a human, the toxin would have destroyed you before a cure could be found.”

“You’re a Witcher. I’m sure you must know.”

“And the dragon at the La Valette Castle? Was that also you?”

“I sympathized with his cause. I wish Aryan could have thought with us in Vergen. He stands up against tyranny, like I do. Like my father taught me.”

“Who else knows about this?” Geralt asked, thinking back to all the people in Vergen. Would they ever follow her if they knew she was not human at all, but a dragon?

“Not many. Philippa, and Iorveth of course. He invented my title, after all.”

So that was how it was. Geralt stared at the woman he so far had thought was simply a gifted general, a natural leader. Now some things made much more sense, for example Iorveth’s fascination with her, his submission to her command, despite her seemingly being a dh’oine.

And yet it also meant that Iorveth had lied to him. Not in a big way, and Geralt understood it was not Iorveth’s secret to tell, but it still made him feel empty inside, as if some part of their bond, their conversations, had been destroyed.

“Come” Saskia said. “Let’s join the others.”

 

* * *

 

They came back just in time to see the battle had already started again. As Saskia had predicted, their formation held firm against Henselt’s army, but Geralt knew it was only a matter of time before the strength of their own men gave out, while the Kaedweni had come five thousand strong and more and more were pouring into the city, trying to take the second ring.

Without further ado, Saskia threw herself back into battle, and the dwarfs, elfs and humans howled in greeting of their commander. Geralt did the same, taking note of the two trolls he had brought back together and that were now paying him back by smashing the Kaedweni to pulp.

“Oh, looky there” Zoltan said next to him as he kicked down a ladder and the two soldiers climbing up it. “High Prick Henselt in the flesh. He must be damned sure of his victory if he decided to grace us with his royal arse.”

Indeed, Geralt quickly saw the King of Kaedwen in the thick of his men, far enough behind that he wasn’t really in danger, but in the city nonetheless. “He has guts” he commented, dodging a sword and stabbing the bearer under the arm into his heart.

“Bah” Zoltan spat, grabbing his crotch. “Bollocks as small as pebbles. Mine now, that’s a different story. Shit!” His friend stumbled backwards. Geralt immediately turned around so that he was blocking him with his body. Zoltan shook of blood from his hand which was slashed up pretty badly. “Damn whoresons!”

“Don’t insult the whores” Geralt said, looking around to make sure the assailant was gone. “They’re just doing their job.”

“Right, right … what a mess. Oh, it’s not looking good, Geralt.”

“I know.” Geralt had stopped paying attention during their fighting, but now that he had a moment to breathe, he realized how bad things looked. Saskia and her guard fought tooth and nail against a much bigger force that surrounded them, the gateways had been taken, the barricades ripped down. The trolls still fought bravely, but all around them were Kaedweni. The people of Vergen were being suffocated by the sheer number of their enemies.

A swishing sound made Geralt lift his head into the air. A volley of arrows cut through the air, flying over their heads and into the thick of the kaedweni soldiers, dropping them under screams and flailing limbs.

“Iorveth” Geralt breathed in helpless relief, following the flight of arrows to the northern quarter that not been taken yet. There the leader of the Scoia’tael stood, bow at the ready, already his next arrow on the bowstring.

Geralt felt so many things all at once. Seeing Iorveth hale and alive took away a weight he hadn’t realized he carried with him. His breathing went easier, a smile travelled to his lips, despite the battle raging around him. Seeing Iorveth as he stood there, eye sharpened, stance upright and strong, he felt the first stirrings of arousal.

And he was angry.

Angry at Iorveth for being late, for lying to him, and most of all for making him have feelings he didn’t want to admit.

After that, the battle turned into a slaughter. If Geralt had ever doubted the impact a hundred or so archers could make in a war, he now knew better. The Kaedweni that had been funneled into the city could do nothing against the hail of arrows that rained down on them again and again, and the dwarfs at the gate managed to separate the soldiers even more by closing them in and keeping out the reinforcements that couldn’t follow up anymore due to the elven archers. By the time Henselt sounded the cry of retreat, there was no place for him to go and so the King of Kaedwen found himself and a few hundred wounded straggles caught between a closed gate and Vergen’s bloodthirsty forces.

As it became clear that the battle was over, Geralt made his way to Iorveth, who already waited for him. There was a brief moment of awkwardness before Geralt threw caution into the wind, grabbed Iorveth and pulled him close.

The elf smelled of cedar wood and blood, and his free hand clawed at Geralt’s hair, holding him. They pressed their foreheads together, breathing the same air. Geralt relaxed fully for the first time since Iorveth had left.

“You were hellishly good” Geralt whispered, stroking Iorveth’s cheek.

“I thought you wanted to get me some wine for my return” the elf mocked, a rare smile on his face.

“If you hadn’t been so late, maybe you would have gotten some.”

Behind them, the clamor died down.

“I surrender” Henselt said, taking off his crown and revealing a polished bald head. “The victor decrees the loser’s fate. What are your conditions, Saskia?”

“You know my conditions” the Virgin answered immediately. “An independent Upper Aedirn, with Saskia of Vergen at its head.”

“As well as war reparations” Philippa added, who had made her way to Saskia’s side. “The exact sum will be discussed at Loc Muinne.”

While the three of them kept talking about conditions and punishments for war criminals, Iorveth straightened up, gripping his bow tighter. “Forgive me, Geralt.”

And with that he lifted his bow, notched an arrow, and shot Henselt right through the eye.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth accepts the consequences of his actions. Geralt doesn't.

“A life for a life. What do you say?”

Iorveth stopped struggling. Was Letho suggesting … “You think I would repay Geralt by killing him?” he spat, now wriggling in earnest against Letho’s hold, but the Witcher was a mountain of meat, far stronger and heavier than Iorveth and held him down without effort.

“I haven’t finished yet” he said. “I have no desire to kill Geralt, though he may believe otherwise. His death has no meaning for me. Can’t you spot the trend, elf? Haven’t you named me Kingkiller already?”

“Henselt?” Iorveth asked, stunned.

“Or Saskia, though she is not yet crowned, but I think we both know who you’d rather kill. What do you say? Shall we join forces once more? As you so aptly put it to Geralt, king or beggar, what’s the difference?”

“I would need to reach him first” Iorveth ground out, looking over his shoulder to meet Letho’s cold, yellow eyes, so unlike Geralt’s, which showed depth and humor. “How am I supposed to kill him, just wander into the Kaedweni Camp unchecked? I think not.”

“You forget the battle. Kaedwen will bring the war to Vergen’s gate, and Henselt is sure of his strength. If he thinks his victory assured, he will not miss the chance to revel in his glory and join his forces during the last push. That’s when your Scoia’tael appear and turn the tide.” Letho leaned back and lifted off some of the pressure. “So. Do we have a deal?”

Iorveth was silent. He didn’t feel bad about killing Henselt, as he had already helped bring down Foltest, and he still thought all the Leaders of the North deserved their death for the discrimination and pain they had brought upon their non-human subjects. But he knew that killing Henselt was not what Saskia would approve of. It was the action of a ruthless Scoia’tael, not the elven archer he tried to be for her.

And yet, without the Scoia’tael that Letho promised to let go in exchange for Henselt’s life, could Vergen really defeat Kaedwen?

Did he even have a choice?

 

* * *

 

Iorveth watched the arrow pierce through Henselt’s eye with a satisfying squelch, dropping the king dead. Immediately, weapons were raised, the Kaedweni staring in shock and horror at their monarch. Behind him, Geralt hissed through his teeth, grabbing Iorveth to pull him out of sight, but Philippa and Saskia had already spotted him.

Philippa’s face was livid in anger, and it reflected in Saskia’s expression as she rounded on him in ice-cold fury. “How dare you kill a king, a man that has already surrendered?!” she screamed, drawing her sword. “Have you any idea how this impacts the negotiations, the risk you put Vergen in? How can we be respected as an independent state if we kill a monarch we’re discussing peace treaties with?”

“I did what needed to be done, Saskia” Iorveth said, going down on one knee. “I await your judgement.”

“Death will be your judgement” Saskia snarled. “Execute him!”

Iorveth looked up to see a dwarf with a heavy axe slowly move towards him. There was a glint of joy in his eyes, and Iorveth remembered all the people that had been against his involvement in the war, that Saskia had persuaded to give him a chance. Maybe it was for the best that he would die here today. One less subject of dissent in the already fractured city.

Yet when the executioner stepped towards him, bows were raised behind him. The Scoia’tael knew loyalty, and it was first and foremost to their own. The moment Saskia had decreed his death, they rose against her in his defense. It couldn’t be allowed.

“Stand down!” he bellowed, keeping his head bowed, staring at the blood-soaked ground. “I made this decision on my own, fully aware of the consequences. Do not jeopardize Saskia’s reign for one life. If my death brings peace to Vergen, then so be it.”

After a moment of tension, the weapons were finally lowered. Yet the axe bearing dwarf did not come closer. Instead, there was real fear in his eyes when Iorveth looked up to see what the matter was.

“You too, Witcher” Saskia said very calmly. “Lower your sword.”

Only then did Iorveth look behind himself. Geralt had, probably in synch with the Scoia’tael, drawn his sword, but never stopped holding it in fighting stance right above Iorveth.

“I will lower it when Iorveth and I are outside the gates, out of reach of the archers” Geralt said coldly. “Let us go, and you may enjoy the victory. Attack, and I will slaughter any that try to harm us.”

“Geralt?”

Iorveth turned his head to see Dandelion, Geralt’s bard friend who pushed his way through the throng of stunned onlookers. “Let me through, please, I need to get to the front, yes, thank you— Geralt! What is going on here?”

“We’re leaving, Dandelion” Geralt said.

“But my hymn—”

“Now!”

The bard shot Iorveth a speculating look. “I’ll get Zoltan” he finally said.

“No need” the dwarf called, fighting his way to the front ranks as well now. “I was just coming.”

“You seem under the impression that we will let you go just like that” Philippa snarled, magic crackling around her.

“Leave me already” Iorveth said, seeking Geralt’s gaze. “I knew this was the consequence. I am prepared to die for Saskia’s cause.”

“Well, I’m _not_ prepared to let you die for it” Geralt said. “Get up, we get out of here now.”

“I warn you” Philippa and Saskia growled. “Do not make an enemy of me, Geralt.”

Iorveth halted in his movements, as did Geralt. They shared a quick look, then Iorveth stood fully up. “On second thought, I do not want to die after all” he said. “Scoia’tael, draw.”

A hundred bows lifted, arrows notched. Philippa paled as all these arrows pointed at her and Vergen’s militia that stood ready to attack.

“Foolish witcher” she spat. “Go then, take your lover with you. When we meet again, you will beg for my mercy.”

“Let’s go” Geralt said, and together with Zoltan and Dandelion, under the cover of all of Cáerme’s archers, they made their way through the corpses on the streets, through the gate and into the Aedirnian wilderness.

 

* * *

 

They didn’t make good time that first day. They didn’t dare walk the streets, too afraid kaedweni stragglers or Saskia’s own forces would take notice and start pursuing them. The terrain off the highway was harsh and unforgiving. Upper Aedirn was a collection of rocky slopes, mountain paths and dense, forested areas that slowed the party down significantly.

Iorveth was used to traversing nature and found the best routes to travel on by following animal marks and the small rivers, but he had many days of grueling march behind him and had slept no more than two or three hours each night since leaving Vergen.

He could tell that Geralt didn’t fare any better. The witcher may not have been marching, but he had fought a draug and a war, and Iorveth noticed the tiny limp that Geralt tried to hide from his friends. The wound in his leg, though healing, was still bothering him.

Dandelion, unsurprisingly, handled their trek through the wild the worst. He kept stumbling over roots, complained about not having a horse like a “true adventurer” and fell behind so often that one time they almost lost him and had to double back.

About Zoltan, there was only to say that he was a dwarf, hardy as an oak tree and not at all fazed by anything on their path. When he didn’t crack bawdy jokes or bicker with Dandelion, he stayed mostly out of Iorveth’s way, which made him an acceptable companion.

By nightfall, they fairly collapsed. They had no provisions, none of their possessions, safe Dandelion’s lute, which the bard naturally was never without.

“I don’t want to ruin the mood” Zoltan finally grunted. “But I haven’t eaten shit since this morning, and Geralt even less I dare say. We need food.”

Dandelion moaned dramatically. “Fate is a cruel mistress …”

Iorveth got up. “I will hunt” he declared.

“I’m coming with you” Geralt said. “We need firewood. Zoltan, get water, Dandelion, try to clear some space for us to sleep on.” With that he vanished between the trees. Iorveth quickly followed until he caught up with him.

Geralt was indeed gathering firewood, but as soon as they were out of earshot from his friends, he dropped the wood to the ground and rounded on him.

“Bloody elf, what were you thinking?” he demanded. “First you kill Henselt for no reason, then you prostrate yourself like a lamb going to slaughter. All of that without warning, without telling me a single thing. Are you out of your mind?”

Iorveth took a deep breath, reaching for Geralt’s hand, but the witcher pulled away. “Answer me!” he demanded.

“I did what was necessary” Iorveth said, quickly relating his meeting with Letho. “Cáerme’s life was on the line and I needed the troops. I had to agree to his bargain.”

“But you didn’t have to go through with it!” Geralt argued. "Just take the troops, leave Henselt alone and let Cáerme die.”

“You really think that?”

They stared each other down until Geralt deflated, leaning against the nearest tree and sliding down. “Why is Cáerme’s life worth more than yours?” he asked. “Why do you make me think you’re safe after I worried all week, only to throw yourself on the chopping block the next moment?”

Iorveth went down on his knees in front of Geralt, taking both his hands and kissing each of the bloody and bruised knuckles. “I apologize. Will you forgive me?”

Geralt sighed, finally unclenching his fists and relaxing his shoulders. “Next time you decide it’s necessary to kill a king, warn me, alright?”

“I will. And may I add …” Iorveth said, kissing his way over Geralt’s hands to his wrists, “that I quite enjoy you worrying about me?”

“Oh, shut up” Geralt said and smashed their lips together.

Iorveth’s insides squirmed in sudden arousal as Geralt expertly rolled their tongues together, grabbing the back of his head and kissing him until he became lightheaded. They broke apart, only for Geralt to snake a hand around Iorveth’s waist and pulling him into his lap, pressing their crotches together. Geralt’s touch was like a thousand tiny bolts of lightning and when he finally unbuckled Iorveth’s belt and started stroking his cock, Iorveth moaned, the sound filling the cold night air like a promise.

Geralt jerked him off with sloppy movements, licking and sucking his neck until Iorveth felt the bruises forming on his tattooed skin. Still, he managed to extricate himself form Geralt’s grip long enough to fumble the witcher’s belt open.

So far, the sex with Gerald had felt controlled, almost tidy in the way it was structured. Not this time. Geralt was off the leash and his strong grip, the need in his eyes, turned Iorveth on beyond words. Today, it was Iorveth submitting to the ministrations, to give up some of the control, and against all his earlier expectations, it felt glorious.

He had assumed giving up power to a man like Geralt would weaken him, but instead he relished in the knowledge that it was his own decision to give Geralt so much of himself, and that made everything worthwhile.

Geralt kissed him until they had to break apart panting and with spit-covered lips. Iorveth keened against his ear when Geralt played with the head of his cock, sliding his thumb over the slit, smearing the clear liquid gathering there all over the silken skin or stroking the underside with the slightest touch of his blunt fingernails.

Iorveth in turn tried to keep up his ministrations as best as he could, but the way Geralt handled him made his heart flutter and heat flush over his chest and into his face.

“T-together” he moaned, fully climbing into Geralt’s lap, kneeling to either side of his legs, their cocks brushing together with each movement. Geralt nudged his hips forward and Iorveth’s thoughts came to a stuttering, blissed out halt as Geralt pulled them off together, panting and kissing, never letting go even after Iorveth’s seed shot onto his bloodspeckled armor.

And still, Geralt didn’t stop. “Again” he whispered into Iorveth’s ear. “Come again for me.”

Iorveth started jerking, his pleasure cresting dangerously close to the pain of overstimulation, until he finally cried out from his second orgasm and Geralt followed him over the edge soon after.

They lay pressed together in the cool night air, fully clothed except for their slowly softening cocks.

“Don’t risk your life like that again” Geralt mumbled in a sleepy voice. “I need you. The Scoia’tael and non-humans need you. And Saskia needs you, even if she doesn’t know it at the moment.”

The mention of his leader made Iorveth’s heart turn to stone. His fists clenched. “You noticed then?”

“That they spoke in synch? Yes. There is magic at work, no doubt. The whole exchange with Henselt felt too studied, but I didn’t suspect anything until that moment.”

“Saskia is … she would never fall pray to simple manipulation. It has to be magic. And it was must have taken hold while she was weak.”

“Oh?” Geralt drawled. “And why is that?”

Too late Iorveth realized his mistake. “She is strong-minded and stubborn as an ox” he said. “That’s why …” Only then did he notice Geralt’s look. “You already know. What she really is.”

“She revealed herself to me during the siege” Geralt admitted, voice cold. “It explains why Philippa wants to control her. She is not only the leader of a new country, she is also a dragon. A powerful weapon in the hands of a sorceress.”

Iorveth stroked over Geralt’s chest, searching his gaze. “You are angry.”

The witcher sighed. “Not as much as about your new suicidal tendencies. But yes. I understand why you kept it secret. Still, it stings.”

Iorveth nodded, leaning against him fully again. He would not apologize for keeping Saskia’s secret, but he wished Geralt could have found out differently.

“I hate to say it” Geralt finally said, “but I’m still starving.”

Iorveth groaned.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group reaches Loc Muinne.

The ruins of Loc Muinne, the elven city that had been destroyed by Redania hundreds of years ago, rose up between the Blue Mountains, painted golden by the afternoon sun. The former glory of its architecture gave Geralt a chill. After four days of tracking through mud, climbing up mountain slopes and sleeping on hard, rocky ground, they had finally reached their destination.

“To have this seen this place during its prime” Dandelion lamented. “A place of learning for all races, peace and beauty wherever the eye lands.”

“Beautiful girls bored of study, you mean” Zoltan snorted. His remark went unanswered as they all stood and looked down at the city, both his friends in awe, Geralt in calculation of where best to enter unseen and Iorveth with a sharp anger and sadness in his eyes.

“Let’s hurry” the elf finally said and went ahead. Geralt and the other two followed him down the curving path. Halfway down, a flock of harpies tried to take a bite out of their faces, but Geralt’s silver sword, Zoltan’s axe and Iorveth’s arrows made short work of them.

At the foot of the ravine, they encountered their first problem. Geralt had not expected to walk through the main entrance unchallenged, but neither was he prepared to see the Knights of the Order guarding the gate.

“A damn mess this is” Zoltan grumbled. “Want me to smash their heads in a little?”

“We cannot slaughter every armed person standing in our path” Iorveth said, already turning the other way.

“And why is that, butcher?” Zoltan asked pointedly. “Developing some kind of conscience now, are we?”

Geralt held his breath, but Iorveth didn’t seem fazed.

“Don’t be absurd” the elf said, a half smile on his lips. “It would simply take too long.” And with that, he went ahead.

Dandelion came up behind Geralt, whispering into his ear. “Was he joking? I can never tell if he’s joking.”

“Rule of thumb” Geralt said and started going after Iorveth. “He’s probably not joking.”

 

* * *

 

It turned out that Iorveth had some knowledge about a cave that led straight to the side of the city where the walls were crumbled down enough to pose no difficulty in scaling them.

Inside, they found themselves in a deserted chamber, overgrown with lichen and poison ivy. After dispatching the ambush of some gargoyles, they snuck through the heavy iron doors that connected all the quarters and chambers.

“So we got in” Zoltan said, looking around doubtfully. “What now?”

“We find someone who knows where Philippa and Saskia are and when the war discussions will be held” Iorveth immediately said.

“And we find a Nilfgaardian who knows where Triss was taken” Gerald added.

“Wrong, both of you” Dandelion chimed in. “First, we need a place to hide and sleep in.” Geralt shot him an annoyed look. Didn’t the bard realize the gravity of the situation?

“We don’t have time for you to cozy up” he said.

“On the contrary” Dandelion said, fully turning around to them. “We have nothing but time. If any of you had bothered to ask the _one person_ in this ill-begotten group that is knowledgeable about politics, I could have told you that the Summit of Loc Muinne, where incidentally the war reparations are to be discussed, will take place four days hence and that therefore we need a safe place from which to plan our actions, without Nilfgaard or Redania breathing down our necks.”

Iorveth rolled his eyes, but Geralt gave a tiny, apologetic nod. On the barge, he had preached to Iorveth about all of Dandelion’s good qualities, yet in the light of recent events had forgotten the biggest of them all: His knowledge about politics.

“You’re right” he apologized. “What else can you tell us about the Summit?”

“Not much that is useful I fear” the bard said. “It is originally held to discuss the future of Temeria, as the line of succession after King Foltest’s death is yet to be decided. Nilfgaard will take part as overseer, led by the Ambassador Baron Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen. The mages of the Conclave and Council will also be there to discuss the possibility of reformation. This means that the kings, or rather their representatives, as well as their magical advisers, will be present. King Radovid is the only living king of the Northern Kingdoms; all the others have met very _unfortunate_ fates.” He gave a pointed look to Iorveth, who was after all directly and indirectly responsible for two of these three deaths. “A series of events that I still know nothing about and I want to inform you both that I resent this secrecy greatly.”

“It is noted” Iorveth grunted. “What about Saskia? Will she be there as well?”

“She has to be” Dandelion agreed. “She may have won the war, but unless her victory is acknowledged by the other countries, it means nothing. In addition, she wants Upper Aedirn as an autonomous state, which has to be certified by all the leaders of the North before it becomes binding.”

“So that means we’ve got four days to find a cure for Saskia or she stays Eilhart’s brainwashed little pet dragon.” Zoltan shivered at the image. “But where do we find her ladyship?”

“With so many nations close together, conflict is bound to rise” Dandelion explained patiently. “Most likely, each nation was given their own quarter of the city. We just need to find out where everyone is situated and all is well.”

“Think you can handle it, Dandelion?” Geralt asked. He didn’t like it, but he and Iorveth were not the most inconspicuous people and would surely draw unwanted attention.

Dandelion adjusted his violet doublet with a keen smirk. “Who do you think I am? Give me a day and I will know the whereabouts of every noble invited to the Summit.” With these words, he strutted away.

Geralt watched his friend go, ignoring the constant worries that nagged at his heels and deciding to trust Dandelion. If anyone could do it, it was the bard. And Dandelion was an adult, after all.

Kind of.

 

* * *

 

“This place looks decent” Zoltan said, smashing his fist against the tall wooden door to see if it was rotten inside. “Close to the center, not too close to draw attention, and it has a roof. What else could you want?”

Iorveth peeked through one of the windows, noticing the overthrown furniture and broken floor. Still, it would have to do. “It’s getting late” he said, nodding towards the quickly darkening sky. “Let’s set up and do our reconnaissance tomorrow.”

Geralt gave an affirmative grunt and followed the dwarf inside. Iorveth closed the door behind them. Inside, it was already hard to see. Dust motes hung in the air, and it smelled of moldy walls and rat dung.

“I’ll take this room” Zoltan announced, opening one of the two doors that led from the hallway into the book of the house. “You two take that one over there. Dandelion can share with me when he returns.”

Iorveth want to the door, the floorboards creaking beneath his nimble feet. The room was in better shape than he had expected. There was a bed in the middle with drapes half-eaten by moths, an emptied bookshelf and a washbasin in the corner.

From behind him, he could make out Zoltan’s quiet voice as he murmured to Geralt.

“Just do me a favor” he said. “I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but Dandelion has filled me in enough to not wanna know more. Just … keep it down.”

Iorveth grinned smugly, unseen by the other two, and went into the room.

They would see about that.

 

* * *

 

After they had eaten and set up the night watch, Geralt and Iorveth retired to their personal bedroom. Geralt pulled off his belt and leaned his swords against the wall, stretching his muscles and groaning as he did so. Iorveth had already taken off his own weapons and sat on the edge of the bed, only wearing a simple pair of linen trousers and a shirt, both of which he usually wore underneath his armor.

“I hope Dandelion will be alright” Geralt said after a moment, sitting down heavily next to Iorveth. “He has a habit of getting into trouble. I don’t know how often he would have died already if I hadn’t been there to save him.”

Iorveth put an arm around Geralt’s shoulder, pulling him close. “I thought it was the other way around?”

Geralt snorted. “That’s what he tells all the women he flirts with.”

“He will be fine” Iorveth said, holding Geralt closer. “He seemed very confident in his abilities.”

“That’s what worries me.”

Iorveth kissed the side of his head, pressing his lips firmly against the witcher’s hair. “Stop worrying” he whispered, then let his lips wander to Geralt’s ear. He nibbled the shell, breathing turning heavy when Geralt leaned deeper into him, taking hold of his hand and intertwining their fingers.

“There is a bed here” he murmured.

“I noticed” Iorveth replied, sucking Geralt’s earlobe into his mouth and slowly pulling him down into the dusty mattress. “Want to use it?”

Geralt let himself be guided on his back, legs sprawled to both sides as Iorveth lay between them, kissing his way down Geralt's neck. The witcher shuddered under his ministrations, slower and more careful than usual. Iorveth brushed through his white hair, undoing the leather strip holding it up and letting the loose strands tumble through his fingers. “You are beautiful” he whispered, drawing back to look at Geralt fully. Geralt stared back at him, wonder and affection in his eyes. He opened his mouth, but Iorveth laid a finger on his lips, shushing him. “You don't have to say it back. Just let me touch you.”

Geralt huffed a laugh and let his head fall back completely, closing his eyes. Iorveth went back to kissing his throat, licking the salt from his skin, nibbling at his collar bone. His hands wandered down, slowly pulling up Geralt's shirt, until he could see the defined abdomen and broad chest. He trailed lower, sucking on Geralt's nipple, which elicited a drawn out moan from the witcher. His hips bucked forward, but Iorveth moved away, denying Geralt the friction he sought. He kept kissing and licking the pink bud, moving his hands over Geralt's chest and sides in broad movements, massaging his other nipple and lightly scratching down to his hip.

Suddenly Geralt brought up his leg, putting it around Iorveth and pulling him into his groin, exhaling sharply when they're cocks touched through two layers of leather.

“So impatient …” Iorveth teased, biting the nipple a bit harder and enjoying Geralt's involuntary bucking.

“You are a terrible tease, aren't you, elf?” Geralt said, finally opening his eyes. Iorveth looked at him, sprawled on the bed, neck and chest glistening with saliva and reddened from his lovebites. He felt something inside him stir, a desire he hadn't had in forever.

He gently took Geralt's wrists and brought them up by the witcher's head, pushing the muscular arms into the blanket. “Don't move” he ordered, letting go and waiting a moment to see if Geralt would obey. The witcher swallowed thickly, rolling his hips, but keeping his arms in place. Iorveth smiled. Then he stood up from the bed and undid his trousers.

Geralt's gaze seared through him, dropping from his undone shift to his naked lower body. Iorveth took off the rest of his clothing, including his bandanna, which he weighed in his hands, then let drop to the floorboards.

The witcher groaned when Iorveth leaned over to look through his belongings for some blade oil, which he quickly found. He slowly lowered himself back onto the bed, kneeling above Geralt's groin, but not touching. He coated his fingers liberally in oil, then grabbed around himself and inserted one finger into his opening.

Geralt keened, hands twitching as if actually restrained. Iorveth ignored the wild movements of his hips, just leaned forward to better reach behind himself. He had never fingered himself like this, in front of someone else. Sweat dripped from his forehead as he used a second finger, slowly spreading himself and coating his insides with oil. Geralt's cock was dripping, leaking precum on his belly and into the coarse white hair.

Iorveth added a third finger, moaning loudly when his fingers brushed his prostate. He had forgotten how good it felt, the all-encompassing pleasure that built slowly like a fire before it consumed him completely.

“Iorveth” Geralt groaned, actually thrashing on the bed. “Let me touch you. ”

“Not yet” Iorveth murmured, spreading his fingers out more, bucking against them. The burn was there, a sharp tingle of pain, but just looking at Geralt's cock, imagining how the witcher fucked into him, moved inside him, made him dizzy with want.

He withdrew his fingers, grabbing hold of Geralt's shaft and lining himself up, before slowly, so slowly, lowering himself on it.

He was not prepared. Not for the sheer thickness of it, splitting him open inch by inch, not for Geralt's sudden gasp and the heat inside him as Geralt fucked up into him, right into his prostate, and not for his own scream of pleasure, ringing in his ears.

“Touch me” he gasped, grabbing Geralt's shoulders and leaning on him, while he fucked himself against Geralt's cock. The witcher's hands flew up, stroking his face, his chest, drawing him in for a kiss, their tongues meeting sloppily, lips crashing together. Geralt rolled his hips upwards while Iorveth moved down against him, finding a rhythm that had him seeing stars. His breathing turned into ragged moans when Geralt sat up, kneading his ass cheeks and spreading him wider, massaging him. They never stopped kissing as Iorveth bobbed up and down, braided hair coming undone and falling around his shoulders in messy strands.

“Close—” he gasped, pressing his face into Geralt's neck and clawing at his back. Geralt sucked his neck, moving one hand to Iorveth's cock and pumping him in time with their movements until Iorveth gave a muffled cry and came into his hand. Geralt kept thrusting into him, fucking him over the point of pleasure into pure bliss. Iorveth moaned, hugging Geralt and letting the witcher finish inside him, coming only a few moments later. They sagged into the bed, Iorveth naked and shaking, Geralt's softening cock slipping out of him. Geralt hugged him close, kissing his temple and long ear.

“You are stunning” he said in a low, rumbling voice. Then, with a mischievous grin, he added, “and beautiful.”

Iorveth snorted, but let himself be cuddled. Geralt's skin was hot and rough from so many scars, but he didn't mind. It felt good, being in the arms of someone so strong and battle-hardened. He remembered the way Geralt had stood above him, protecting him alone against Saskia's whole army.

Thinking about Saskia made Iorveth's smile vanish. He slowly sat up, staring at his hands. “We have to save her” he said, looking at Geralt desperately. “Without her, my people are lost. Too many of us have already died in human wars. We just want to settle down somewhere, have peace. I am so tired, Geralt. So incredibly tired.”

Geralt leaned on his elbows, stroking his bare back. “I know. I feel the same. Ever since I lost my memories, people tell me how I always tried to stay neutral, how I hated politics. And yet I've been between fronts wherever I go, making decisions, choosing sides. I just want to find Triss, find Yen, and then continue my life in peace.”

“Yennefer?” Iorveth asked, turning around. “Your other sorceress? Why must you find her?”

Geralt stared to the side, eyes far away. “She holds many memories. I cannot just let her vanish with them. Until I know myself fully, until I've found all the important people of my past, I will never feel complete. When this is over, when Saskia is saved, I have to go. Search for her, find her, and reconcile myself with the man I was. I cannot go on otherwise.”

“So you will leave” Iorveth said, voice empty. He should have known. Of course Geralt would leave him behind. Had he honestly expected that his scarred body, his brutal mind, were enough to hold a man like Geralt?

Geralt finally looked back to him, realizing that his words had destroyed the moment. “I must find her” he insisted, reaching for Iorveth. “That doesn't mean that I am choosing her over you or—”

Iorveth drew away. “Don't make me false promises, Geralt” he said, swallowing down the _Gwynbleidd_ that sat on his tongue, choking him. “If you have to leave, then leave. But don't keep me waiting for you if you're not coming back.”

“Iorveth” Geralt began, but in that moment, the door flew open, revealing Zoltan, who stood with a hand shielding his eyes in the doorway.

“Not too interrupt your lover's quarrel” he said, peaking between his fingers and quickly shutting his eyes again “but there is a group of redanian soldiers outside and they are saying some very interesting things that you might wanna hear. Seems our beloved dragon tamer has got herself imprisoned.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt has to make a painful decision.

The brownish water came up to Iorveth’s shins while they waded deeper and deeper into the labyrinthine underground. His nose twitched in the foul place that was the sewers beneath Loc Muinne. One should have thought that a deserted city did not produce a lot of stench, but with the representatives of four nations in attendance and the smell of thousands of rats and necrophages, it was quite the opposite.

How Geralt with his even more sensitive nose managed, he did not know, but the witcher had not uttered a single word of complaint so far. Despite the late, or rather early hour by now, they had not slept at all and Iorveth still felt raw from their conversation.

Zoltan’s interruption had been untimely, but at the same time he felt a grudging gratitude, because he feared what more Geralt would have said about their future—or lack thereof.

Still, the silence sat painfully between them, a fistful of thorns should they come too close. It didn’t help that Iorveth kept thinking maybe he had misinterpreted the signs, or given off mixed ones himself. Could he really blame Geralt for speaking of Yennefer when he had started by bringing Saskia into their nightly whisperings? Did Geralt not have a right to feel strongly for the women in his life when Iorveth was ready to lay down his own future for the dragoness?

It made him moody and tired, a feeling he had been able to forget sometime between their flight from Flotsam and the siege in Vergen. He had let down his guard, had carefully extracted himself from the stone cold leader that he played for everyone else and now he paid the price.

Shaking his head, he shrugged off the dark musings and refocused on the task at hand. Thanks to the soldiers they knew that Philippa was kept in the dungeons beneath the city. Since she was the only one who could revoke Saskia’s enchantment, they needed her alive, no matter the cost. And so Geralt and he made their way down into the sewers, the best and most direct, if very smelly, way to the prison cells. So far their ruse was paying off. No one but rotfiends attacked them, and while it took a bit of bloody work, they were quickly dispatched.

Geralt suddenly came to a halt, lifting a hand to signal Iorveth to wait. While the witcher slowly edged forward, drawing his steel sword, Iorveth made his way over to the overgrown wall, listening to the lapping of water against stone that echoed in the underground tunnel. He heard nothing yet, but at the far end of the corridor, where stairs led up to the surface, he could make out shadows from figures overhead.

Geralt motioned for him to follow. They approached the steep stairs without a sound, their feet wading through the water carefully. Iorveth notched another arrow, the bow still in his hand from the frequent monster attacks. They went up the stairs. From above, Iorveth could finally make out the faint sound of voices. It was Geralt though who drew in a breath.

“Nilfgaard” he whispered, sharing a quick look with Iorveth, whose own eyes hardened. What was going on here?

Sneaking their way up the last few steps, Iorveth had just enough time to notice early morning sunlight falling through the holes in the ceiling ahead of them before a woman shrieked. Fearing for a split second that it was Saskia, both he and Geralt jumped forward and into the open, only to come face to face with a handful of nilfgaardian soldiers that raised their spears in shock, their winged helmets making them appear taller than they were. Further back he could see the metal bars of prison cells and in one of them, King Radovid, a thickset, black-clad man with grey hair, and Philippa herself, held by two soldiers.

What they did to her, he couldn't see, but she screamed again in obvious agony.

A shove sent him stumbling, thereby narrowly evading the spear that a grimfaced soldier had thrust forward. Geralt gave him an angry look for having let down his guard, then threw himself fully into the fight. Iorveth fired off two arrows in quick succession as well, ending the erupting battle within seconds. He and Geralt stood amidst the bleeding and smoldering corpses of their enemies and realized too late that while they had been fighting, Radovid and the Nilfgaardian ambassador had fled.

Geralt went over to Philippa who stood in the cell, bleeding heavily. Where once her piercing eyes had been, only bloody and empty sockets remained. Radovid seemed to have  taken revenge.

“So we meet again” Geralt said dryly, looking the sorceress up and down with a nearly emotionless look. “Things didn't go so well this time, did they?”

“Radovid … he betrayed me” Philippa groaned. “After all I did for him, he repays me with this … please, Geralt, free me, I have to get out of here. Do you hear me? I need your help!”

“We have some questions first” Iorveth said, moving up to stand beside Geralt. Immediately, Philippa's attention shifted to him.

“I see you still have not parted ways. Do I smell romance in the air?”

“Must be the stench of your own filth" Geralt shot back.

“Answer our questions, and we might let you go” Iorveth said again, worry about Saskia drowning out his desire to let the traitorous bitch rot in this place.

“What will it be then?” Philippa asked.

“Where is Saskia?”

She gave a humorless snort. “So predictable. She was with Silé when they came for me. She will be in hiding until the deliberations start, though I cannot tell you where that is. I thought it safer not to know.”

“Why don't I believe you?” Geralt sighed. “Tell me this then. Is it true what Shilard said? Is the Lodge responsible for the assassinations?”

Iorveth blinked in surprise, but didn't say a word. That must have been the conversation Geralt had listened to while still in the sewers when he had motioned Iorveth to wait. To think the witcher's hearing was this good …

Philippa scoffed. “Half-truths mixed with blatant lies. He told Radovid what he wanted to hear. The Lodge is not responsible for everything that happened. And Triss betrayed us ... I cannot believe it.”

“Was she part of all this?”

Iorveth could hear the slight tremor in Geralt's voice that was almost undetectable. The witcher probably wondered if all this time Triss had lied to him, promised him to find the kingkiller when in reality she had known the perpetrators all along.

“No, she was innocent of those deeds, but she is not free of blame in many others. You do not know her as well you might think, Geralt.”

“But why kill the northern monarchs?” Geralt continued. “What do you gain?”

“I will tell you everything, in detail, once you take these shackles off me.”

“You will tell us everything _and_ help us to unbind Saskia from your foul magic” Iorveth agreed, watching Philippa carefully. The sorceress swallowed hard, but nodded.

“I will. I can teach you how to break the curse, but we need an artifact from my house, which is full of traps. Without my help, you will not be able to get through. Free me, I beg you!”

Iorveth reached out to the lock on the door, but Geralt grabbed his wrist. “A word” he said. Iorveth let himself be led a few steps away. “What?” he asked.

“Shilard said Triss compiled a list for him which contained all the members of the Lodge. She would never have done that of her own free will. She is probably being tortured.”

“She might be” Iorveth agreed. “What is your point, Geralt?”

“My point is that every second I spend following Philippa into what is most assuredly a trap is a second that Triss spends in agony. How long until they gauge out her eyes too? How long until she dies in their prison because she has nothing more of value to tell them?”

Iorveth grabbed Geralt's arm, digging his fingers in and pulling the other close so that his voice didn't carry. “Philippa is our only chance of freeing Saskia from the mindcontrol she is undergoing. If we do not act quickly, Radovid will have Philippa executed and if we let her go and do not immediately go with her, she will run off and vanish, never to be seen again. This is our only shot at keeping a live and tame dragon out of the Lodge's control.”

Geralt ripped himself free. “I have left Triss in Letho's hands to save your life, I have helped defend Vergen instead of looking for her. Now I'm supposed to abandon her _again_ when I know she is being tortured or worse? Do you have any idea what you are asking of me?!”

“Yes” Iorveth simply said. “And I am sorry that I have to ask it, but I will do it anyway. We need Saskia free. The fate of all of Vergen, of all the Scoia'tael, maybe all the North hinges on her. I cannot guarantee that Triss will survive if you come with me, but you are right that Philippa is most likely trying to lead us into a trap. So you can leave and save Triss, and I will follow Philippa alone and die, or you can come with me and maybe still save Triss at another time. I am not making that choice for you, Geralt. But you have to decide quickly, because I am going no matter what.”

And with that he turned around, heart thundering in his chest and tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He opened Philippa's cell.

A moment later, he felt Geralt behind him, wordlessly helping him maneuver the sorceress outside.

It should have been a victory, yet to Iorveth it tasted bitter like bile.

 

* * *

 

As Philippa had warned, her house was a den of death. Three gargoyles attacked them no sooner than they had entered through the front door. Geralt took care of those by himself, as Iorveth was busy keeping Philippa in check who had become much less groveling and was getting impatient and snarky now that her life was not in immediate danger anymore.

Iorveth held her shackled hands and led her up into the house. Geralt came through a doorway, brushing stone dust from his shoulder.

“Damn things” he muttered. “So where is this artifact? And what do we do with it?”

“Upstairs” Philippa said, nodding towards the room Geralt had just exited. “I put the dagger into a magically sealed chest. My notes with the right candle configuration should lie around here somewhere.”

“A dagger?” Iorveth asked while Geralt cursed and went searching. “What are we going to do with that?”

“Stab her in the heart” Philippa explained. As she saw his expression, she laughed. “It is quite safe, I assure you. Getting close enough will be a problem though.”

“We'll worry about that when we have found her” Iorveth said, pulling Philippa closer until his mouth just brushed her ear. “But if you are lying and this dagger kills her instead, I will not rest until I deliver you back to Radovid and see you burn miserably at the stake.”

“How cruel” the sorceress whispered back. “Do not worry, elf, I have no desire in Saskia's death. The dagger will free her. You have my word.”

“Like that means anything.” Iorveth looked up. Geralt had returned, a stack of singed notes in his hand. “There are lots of designs on here we have to try out” he explained and waved the papers through the air. “Let's get started.”

What Philippa had referred to as _upstairs_ was the roof of her house on which a huge pentagram was drawn with chalk on the weathered stone. In the middle stood a chest.

Geralt started to try out the different candle combinations. Iorveth watched carefully, waiting for the trap to spring, but so far nothing seemed out of the ordinary. After a few failed attempts, the pentagram gave a sudden _thrum_ , as if the fire had travelled through the lines and filled the drawing with magic.

The chest clicked open.

“Let me go” Philippa said, nodding towards Geralt, who now carefully went towards the chest and opened it. “The dagger is inside. I gave you what you wanted.”

“It's here” Geralt agreed. “You promised us the truth. I'd like the short version.”

“You think I will give you my last advantage while you keep me chained up? I do not think so, Witcher.” Philippa rattled her wrists. “Take these wretched things off me and I will fulfill my part of the bargain, not a second before.”

“Fine” Geralt ground out. “Take them off, Iorveth.”

While Iorveth did exactly that, the witcher leaned down and took out the dagger. It was beautifully wrought, with ruby inlays and a glinting blade. Iorveth had just enough time to admire the craftsmanship before a terrible tremor went through the stone. Cracks formed, holes opened in the roof and Iorveth lost his footing, letting go of Philippa to steady himself. The moment he didn't touch her anymore, she cried out in triumph and vanished in golden light. A big, white owl flew above their heads and fled into the grey sky.

“She's gone!” Iorveth screamed, only to realize that Geralt could not hear him, for the witcher was caught behind a barrier of white light.

 

* * *

 

Geralt felt the stone shake beneath his feet. Quickly, he tucked away the dagger and rolled away when the roof collapsed beneath him, nearly swallowing him. As he came back up, he was surrounded by walls of pale light. He could just make out Iorveth's silhouette behind it, but then a wild growl drew his attention.

The golem guardian was a good three meters tall, his bulky body made from weathered stone and covered in red, glowing runes. Geralt drew his silver sword and snatched a vial of potions from his belt, a combination of Petri's Philter, Swallow and Tawny Owl that he liked to use. The liquid burned down his throat, his pupils widened, his breathing became deeper.

“Never trust a sorceress” he muttered, then dodged to the side as a huge plume of fire was thrown at him.

What followed next was more an elaborate dance than a battle. Geralt could barely get a few hits in because the golem threw one fiery attack after the other at him. The constant use of his Quen shield was exhausting him, and despite his efforts, his hands soon showed blisters from the singing heat.

He jumped forward and dropped to a knee, barely evading the wide swing of the golem and slashing up with his sword, scoring a direct hit into the monster's chest. The silver cut through the stone and left a glowing, red line behind. The golem roared and stomped down, crushing Geralt beneath its gigantic foot.

Geralt screamed as the weight came fully down on him, pressing the air form his lungs and bending his ribs. With a last desperate attempt, he stabbed his weapon up into the golem's crotch, plunging the metal in deep. The monster groaned, stumbling backwards and lifting its foot in the progress. Geralt rolled away, gasping for air and feeling like he had just fallen from a roof.

“Quen” he coughed, but the shield fizzled out after a few seconds. Despite his potions, he felt drained. He would have to survive a few minutes longer without the sign's protection.

The golem had recovered from the direct hit and lifted its arms to summon another fire plume. Geralt dodged left and right, rolling some of the distance and avoiding any other attack. It was the first hard fight since Vergen and his body quickly reminded him of all the past injuries that hadn't completely healed yet. Both his legs were shaking by the time his Quen was up again, and it was all he could do to keep standing upright when the golem trotted towards him, clapping its hands together. Fire shot up from the ground, singing Geralt's hair, but the shield mitigated any real damage.

Geralt stared down the monster. He knew there was no way he was going to beat the thing in his current condition. Even at his best, it would have been a tough fight, but like this …

He grabbed another potion from his belt, White Honey, which would cleanse the accumulated poisons from his body, and negate any lingering effects. The taste was sweet and cold like spring water, and he followed it up with White Raffard's Decoction, a potion he liked to use as sparingly as possible. While the thick and silvery liquid gave him a power boost and made him forget any pain he felt, it didn't actually heal him, and effectively knocked him out when he was no longer fuelled by adrenaline. It was also hard on his body, as it made him ignore pain and could thereby worsen any number of dangerous injuries.

Still, it was better than dying on the spot. He blinked when the liquid flushed through his system. It felt a lot like being drunk and also like his whole body was crawling with ants.

Before the golem knew what hit it, Geralt rushed forward, dodging around the explosion in front of him and jumping into the monster, slashing his sword up its belly, over its neck and finally thrusting it deep into the creature's chest. The golem made a few stuttering movements, but Geralt didn't stop. He kept slashing the monster, dancing around it in pirouettes, hitting it backhanded, from below, from above, until he reached the back of the golem.

Heaving, he let his sword sink down until the tip brushed the ground. The golem fell to its knees, the runes finally turning dull and colorless.

Geralt watched the golem die while he slowly dropped sideways, his vision blurring. The last thing he saw was a green figure rushing towards him.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth repays a debt.

The witcher lay heavy across his shoulders. It was not the first time Iorveth carried an unconscious friend away from a won battle, but Geralt weighed a good deal more than his Scoia’tael and it proved very difficult to get him back to their safe house without attracting the attention of the guards that patrolled many of the major streets.

When he passed the market from afar, he could just make out the outline of three people in black shrouds, watching him carefully, two tall and slight, the third big and bulky.

Iorveth snarled and kept walking. There was time for _them_ later.

At the safe house, he knocked twice, then once, then twice again and waited until Zoltan opened the door a crack. Upon recognizing him, the dwarf stepped aside.

“What happened?” he asked as Iorveth carried Geralt into their bedchamber and dropped him into the dusty mattress.

“Philippa laid a trap” Iorveth ground out. “Help me get him out of his armor.”

While they undressed Geralt, Iorveth explained the situation more fully to Zoltan. Finally he could take a better look at the witcher’s wounds. The deep cut from Serrit’s sword that had healed so nicely was looking angry and red again, and his whole ribcage and shoulders were covered in dark bruises. Where his fingers had covered the sword hilt, they were burned and blistered, and small chunks of stone had scratched up his face and some of his neck.

In retrospect, it could have been much worse; none of the ribs seemed broken and from a first examination there also didn’t seem to be any internal injuries, but it still took a lot to knock a witcher out cold and Iorveth was left worried even after he had taken care of all the wounds.

Zoltan looked at him from the side and finally patted his arm a bit. “Don’t you worry” he said. “Geralt’s a tough bastard. He’ll be fine come morning. You should get some rest. Didn’t get any before you left for the sorceress, I reckon.”

Regretfully Iorveth shook his head. “There’s someone I have to meet first.”

 

* * *

 

He found the hooded figures where he had left them, in a dark alley close to the market square. As he stepped into the darkness with them, one of the tall ones threw off their hood.

Cáerme looked at him with relief and fear. Her usually braided brown hair was snarled in untidy knots and her eyes sunken into their hollows, but she was alive.

Iorveth stretched out a hand and let her come to him.

“Did you think I would break my end of the bargain?” Letho asked from under his hood, smiling. Iorveth shook from the effort of holding his hands down, not drawing his bow and shooting the grin of that scarred face. Before him stood the reason his whole unit lay dead and rotting in Flotsam’s forest, betrayed by one they had thought their ally.

“Be glad I’m not breaking mine” he ground out finally, fingers twitching.

The witcher narrowed his eyes at him. “I am surprised, actually. I had thought you would surely want to take vengeance on me. Was I mistaken, elf?”

“Not at all. But I’m willing to make another deal with you.”

Auckes snickered, but Letho silenced him with a wave of his hand. “Another deal with me? Whatever do you wish to trade me?”

“Peace” Iorveth said. “I will forego vengeance. None of the Scoia’tael will bother you, and I will not hunt you down to the end of the world to kill you. You can leave here and go on living however you like.”

Letho smiled. “Tempting. What must I do for that privilege?”

“Help me infiltrate the Nilfgaardian Camp” Iorveth said and watched with satisfaction the look of surprise that crossed the witcher’s rough face. “There is a debt I need to repay.”

 

* * *

 

Geralt’s head felt split in two. He groaned, rolling to the side and nearly falling off the bed, only catching himself at the last moment. He wiped his eyes, waiting for his vision to adjust in the near pitch black darkness. Was he back in their hideout?

Annoyed by his own disorientation, Geralt sat up, taking stock of the shape he was in. Bandages circled his thighs and hands, as well as some of his torso. Flashes of memory slowly returned to him.

The dagger. He and Iorveth had gone with Philippa to retrieve it and had been led into a trap. He had fought the golem and been knocked out. Since he was here, Iorveth must have carried him back to their house. Approval of the elf’s strength made Geralt’s heart flutter with fondness and his groin tingle with heat, but that was quickly doused.

Triss.

Shakily, he stood up and began the arduous process of dressing himself. Ever since sleeping together on this bed, everything had gone downhill. Iorveth thought he would abandon him the moment he caught sight of Yennefer and now there stood something else between them as well, the fact that Iorveth kept forcing Geralt to choose and despite everything, Geralt kept choosing _him_. Or his side, at least.

At this rate, he would never save Triss. Cold crawled through his veins. How long had he slept? If it was this dark, he must have slept almost all day away. If Triss wasn’t dead yet, she was at least in much worse shape by now.

Stumbling, he found the door and left the stuffy bedroom. From the common room, he could make out the voice of Zoltan and someone else, someone whose tone was as familiar to him as his own. He pushed inside, leaning against the door frame and tried to hide his relief.

“Dandelion” he greeted the bard who jumped up in surprise. “I didn’t expect you back so soon. Was there trouble?”

“Geralt! Are you alright?” Dandelion came over to him, inspecting the treated injuries with a critical eye. “Zoltan told me you had a run-in with Philippa and that she escaped, and Iorveth still isn’t back and—“

“Wait a second.” Geralt scanned the room, but it was just as Dandelion had said. Iorveth wasn’t there. He had expected the elf to be sleeping in Zoltan’s bed or to be sitting quietly in a corner, brooding, but now that he actively listened for his even breathing, he realized he was wrong.

Iorveth was gone.

“Where did he go?” He rushed forward, only to almost fall on his face when his legs gave out under him. Dandelion caught him with a groan and helped sit him down on the ground, grumbling about his weight the whole time. “When did he leave?” Geralt continued, looking to Zoltan for answers.

“He dropped you off sometime this morning, took care of your wounds and then left again” Zoltan explained, scratching his beard. “Now that I think about it, he said he needed to meet someone. Didn’t even take a second to rest, the bastard.”

Geralt felt a huge headache coming. It was deepest night. Iorveth had been gone the entire day, and in horrible shape apparently. Worry gnawed at his stomach. What did the elf think he was doing? Could it be that he had taken the dagger and tried to lift the curse from Saskia already? But why not wait for him to wake up?

 _Because he is Iorveth_ , a traitorous voice whispered in his mind. _And because you made it very clear before that you didn’t want to help him._

“Shit” Geralt cursed, slamming his fist into the stone floor.

Dandelion cleared his throat. “On another note, Geralt” he began, “there is indeed a complication that made me return earlier than planned. Someone will come to meet with us shortly to explain the situation in its entirety—“

“I have no patience for this” Geralt growled. “Speak plainly, Dandelion. Who comes, and what is going on?”

“Well.” Dandelion shot him a chiding glance. “As I just explained to Zoltan, I identified the quarters pretty quickly. But when I reached the Temerian camp, which I assumed would be the easiest to spy on, I realized that there was a conspiracy afoot. Count Maravel and Baron Kimbolt are plotting to seize the throne through political means, both legal and illegal, and Natalis has no way to put them into their place until proof is found, which is where—”

“Slow down, Dandelion.” Geralt narrowed his eyes. “I thought Foltest’s son was the legitimate heir to the throne. Boussy or what’s his name.”

“Boussy is, alas, dead.” Dandelion let the news sink in before he continued. “As for his sister, Anais, she is missing. We, that is, Roche and I, think that either Kimbolt or Maravel ordered the bandit attack on their convoy.”

Geralt groaned, leaning back against the wall. “Am I right in assuming the _Someone_ you talked about earlier is Roche?”

The bard nodded guiltily. “You do owe him a favor, Geralt” he said. “You basically abandoned him in Flotsam and I haven’t really seen you searching for Letho anymore either. I’m not blaming you, of course, but he did free you from prison and saved your life.”

“I don’t care” Geralt said. “Triss is still out there being tortured or worse, and now Iorveth has gone missing, too. I don’t mind helping him afterwards, but—”

A knock at the door interrupted him. They all froze at the first sound, but then a second knock came immediately after the first and they relaxed. “It’s the combination” Zoltan grumbled as the next few knocks sounded. “And here I thought I’d get the opportunity to cut open some heads.”

“That will be Roche” Dandelion said, standing up and dusting off his colorful trousers. “You can explain your priorities to him directly, Geralt. I’m sure he’ll be delighted.”

Zoltan opened the door, first a crack, then fully. Geralt gasped. Instead of Roche, Iorveth stood outside, a half-unconscious Triss hanging over his shoulder.

“Well, that is a surprise” Dandelion said flatly, clucking his tongue. “Roche will love these developments.”

“Shut up” Geralt said and climbed to his feet. Iorveth meanwhile staggered inside, letting Zolan help him with Triss who drowsily lifted her head. The moment she spotted Geralt, relief and happiness washed over her beaten face. “Geralt …” she whispered.

The next moment, Geralt was next to her, taking her face in his hands and stroking her matted hair. She looked bad. Bruises and dried blood adorned her face like badly applied paint and some of her fingernails had been ripped off. Her clothes were half in tatters, the parts around her wrists ripped to shreds from her efforts to get free.

Geralt stared at her a moment longer, then looked towards Iorveth, who shot him a shaky smile. “Sleep well?” the elf asked snidely. Geralt’s heart bloomed with warmth and something else entirely. Something fierce like fire and blood and protective like thorns.

Maybe this was what Dandelion had referred to as _being serious about him_. Because right now Geralt knew one thing. He wanted this man by his side. Now and forever after.

He knew that was impossible of course. He still needed to find Yennefer. If nothing else, he owed that to her. And Iorveth had a duty to Saskia and the Scoia’tael. But still, in this moment, he wanted the elf by his side—

Triss kissed him.

Geralt had forgotten that he was still holding her face, that she was close to him, and she pressed forward and against him, her lips touching his in a desperate need to feel him, to know that she was safe and alive. Then she collapsed against his chest.

Geralt had just enough time to see Iorveth’s smile vanish and be replaced by emptiness.

“Help me carry her” Geralt said to Zoltan and the dwarf quickly followed his lead. Together, they got Triss inside the house and laid her down on Geralt’s bed. “I’ll take care of her wounds” Geralt said. Zoltan nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

Geralt sat down next to Triss and stroked her hair. “You’re back” he whispered. “I’m sorry I didn’t reach you sooner.”

Triss mumbled in her sleep, dead to the world, so he started taking off her blouse to take care of her wounds. And all the while he remembered Iorveth’s smile vanishing like the moon behind a wall of clouds.

He wondered how Triss would take it when he told her what he had been up to while she was gone. It was not a conversation he was looking forward to.

 

* * *

 

 “I know this must hurt” Dandelion said softly, hovering around Iorveth as if he were made of glass. “You care about him. And he about you! But it could never end well.”

“Yes” Zoltan agreed, roughly patting his back. “Geralt loves our Triss. They’ve been through a lot together. So don’t fret. You never really stood a chance.”

Iorveth stared at the closed door that led to their bedroom and felt his heart slowly drain of emotion until all he felt was exhaustion and numbness.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t known. But he had been a fool.

He had _hoped_.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt leads some important conversations. Iorveth receives a surprise.

When Geralt returned to the common room roughly an hour later, Roche had already arrived and Iorveth was nowhere to be seen, a fact for which Geralt was at once grateful and disappointed. He had wanted to explain everything to Iorveth before the elf got the wrong idea about Triss' kiss, but he didn't want to wake him if he was asleep and since Roche was in the building, alerting him to the Scoia'tael in the next room was maybe not the smartest idea.

“Geralt” the special agent greeted him gruffly. He squatted on the ground next to Zoltan and Dandelion, who had apparently kept him company. “How nice of you to show your face. What the fuck were you thinking, slinking off with that son of a whore in Flotsam? Are you a squirrel sympathizer now?”

Dandelion coughed. Geralt shot him an annoyed glance. “Iorveth has changed. But that’s not why you’re here. Dandelion said something about a conspiracy and Anais missing?”

Roche nodded, face immediately serious and grim. He launched into a description of the evidence they had found so far, as well as his assumption on where she was held.

“The Kaedweni have her, I’m sure of it” he snarled. “To think either the Baron or the Count worked together with those dogs … I must find her. With Foltest and Boussy dead, she is the rightful queen of Temeria.” He looked up at Geralt, eyes seeking his. “Will you help me?”

Geralt sighed. A few hours ago, when Iorveth and Triss had both been missing, he would have said no. But now they slept, safe as they could be in enemy territory, and the Summit wasn’t for another day or so. Besides, he owed Roche a debt.

“I will” he agreed, getting up and stretching his sore back. “But what will you do once we have her? You cannot keep her safe against all the Kaedweni if they try to take her back, and with traitors at the heart of the Temerian court, I wouldn’t trust them either.”

Roche nodded. “I will take her under my command, teach her to fight and to rule. When she is of age, she will be the fiercest queen the north has ever seen. Until then, we hide away.”

“Fair enough” Geralt said.

“I will meanwhile uncover the truth” Dandelion chimed in, sounding entirely too excited. “I shall start by interrogating our two suspects and see where we go from there.”

“Don’t get caught up with one of the girls while you’re at it” Zoltan said.

“Then let’s leave” Geralt said, casting a last mournful glance towards the door behind which Iorveth lay sleeping. He remembered the relaxed set of his features that made him seem younger than he was; sleep smoothing away the thirst for revenge and justice that had eaten him up ever since his youth. But there was time for conversation later.

For now, he had a little girl to rescue.

 

* * *

 

It was as Roche had predicted. Anais was hidden away behind a magical barrier that shattered once Geralt’s sword sheared the responsible sorcerer’s head from his shoulders. The fighting was harder; the enemy not smart but strong in numbers and by the time they had gotten the little princess out of there, Geralt was sporting another dozen small cuts and bruises and an arrow in Roche’s thigh had the special agent limping behind him.

Geralt helped him clear the city. He watched Roche, Ves and their new ward vanish into the mountains outside of Loc Muinne, the sun already standing high in the sky.

He made his slow way back to their hideout, in which Zoltan already waited. “Has Dandelion already left?” Geralt asked, massaging his tense shoulders and taking a swig of water from the canteen the dwarf gave him.

“Yeah” Zoltan said. “I would have gone with him, keep an eye on him, but I didn’t want to leave Triss alone while she’s asleep.”

“Thank you” Geralt said, casting a glance towards the door. “Is she awake yet?”

“Not sure, but you’d better check.”

Geralt made his way to the bedroom. At the door, he hesitated, thinking of Iorveth in the other room, but in the end he just shook his head. Triss deserved an explanation after all she had been through. He owed her that much at least.

Inside, it was dark and stuffy. Geralt rummaged through his bags until he found a candlestick which he stuck into a small tin pan and lit up with a snap of his fingers. By the wavering light, he sat down next to Triss on the bed.

The red-haired sorceress scrunched up her nose at the movement and opened one lazy eyelid. Geralt was glad to see that the bruising around her face had healed a bit. “Good morning” he said quietly, pushing a strand of hair back from her cheek. She was beautiful as ever, but where a few weeks ago a fiery lust would have blossomed in his belly, he now only felt warm affection.

This was going to be harder than he had imagined.

“Morning …” Triss drawled, carefully sitting up in the bed and reaching for Geralt’s hand. He let her entwine their fingers briefly, but when she started stroking them, he pulled away guiltily. Triss’ smile immediately vanished. “Geralt, what is wrong?” She sat up. “I am back, aren’t I? You don’t have to feel bad for not rescuing me sooner. I know you did all you could.”

“Triss …” Geralt stared at her hand, the bloody fingers and indents where nails had once been. “I am glad that you’re safe. But you’re wrong. I had many opportunities to save you, yet I took none of them.”

She leaned back in surprise, studying him now earnestly. “Whatever do you mean?”

“When Letho took you, he made me choose. Between coming after you or saving Iorveth from certain death. I thought you would be safe for a while longer at least, so I went after him instead.”

“Iorveth? Certain death?” Triss pulled up the blanket, covering herself more fully. “Geralt, what have I missed? What’s been going on? I remember nothing from my time as an artefact. You have to fill me in.”

So Geralt did. He owed her the truth, so he didn’t spare her feelings with lies. He explained about Loredo and the elven women in the tower, about Saskia in Vergen, their battle against Henselt, and the deal with Serrit he never took.

“Auckes would have freed you, before they ever brought you here to be tortured. But I couldn’t … I couldn’t let Iorveth die.”

Triss stared at him, confusion and hurt in her eyes. “But why …” she began, clawing at her blanket. “Do not get me wrong, I would not want his death, but he was our enemy. Why was his life more important than—” Before she could finish, her gaze fastened on his neck. “Are those … lovebites?”

“The reason why I couldn’t kill him” Geralt said, swallowing heavily. “Triss, I think I—”

“Please, don’t say any more” Triss murmured, getting up from the bed and turning her back to him. “I get the picture now. I need some time alone to process this. We will speak later.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Geralt.” She laughed bitterly and turned back around to him, eyes shimmering with tears. “That doesn’t make it better, you know?”

 

* * *

 

Iorveth’s eyes blinked open drowsily. Even under the blanket, his limbs felt stiff and cold. He turned in the bed, seeking Geralt’s furnace body with his fingers, but touching only coarse wool.

Dread sank low into his belly like ice water when he suddenly remembered.

The copper blood of Nilfgaardian soldiers, spurting over his armor and up to his elbows in crimson red, Letho at his side, swift death with a sword of steel, and his hate for the Witcher pulsing like poison in his veins, only held back by the need for his strength. Triss, with panic in her eyes and spells on her lips because she thought they had come to kill her.

And Geralt, jumping forward to catch the witch in his arms after their return, their kiss—

Iorveth ground his teeth at himself, sitting up and pulling at his hair until the jealousy faded and left room for the empty shell of his heart.

What an idiot he had been, what an utter fool. Wasn’t this what he had expected to happen all along? Just like Zoltan and Dandelion had said, it had only ever been a matter of time before they found Triss and Iorveth would be forgotten.

Still, it hurt. He always thought himself above heartache, but apparently the weeks in Geralt’s company had softened him, weakened him. The emotionless, fearless leader of the Scoia’tael had left behind a cheap copy of himself, desperate for affection and comfort and … love.

A simple word, and yet it stilled Iorveth in his movements. Was that what it was? This heart-wrenching, gut-clenching thing inside of him that threatened to tear apart all his defenses? If so, Iorveth had to get out of here, and quickly, before it drowned him completely.

He got up, muscles clenching together from all the fighting yesterday. He lit a candle that stood on the corner of the room on the wooden dresser. With the water bucket he cleaned himself thoroughly and washed the crusted blood from his armor, then oiled his swords and restrung his bow.

It was only when he began fletching new arrows, that he realized he was buying time. Waiting for a white-haired witcher to enter his room and explain himself.

Angry at Geralt for not showing up, but mostly at himself for stalling, he left the bedroom, weapons and all. Outside, he found only Zoltan, the dwarf throwing him a speculative look.

Iorveth stood in the doorway, feeling self-conscious and unsure what to do with himself. His Scoia’tael were in Vergen. He was alone in Geralt’s group of friends, and it suddenly felt as if they had turned against him, as if he didn’t belong anymore. The house felt stifling, the air too thick to breathe. Iorveth missed the open woods, the rustling of mice in the thickets, of squirrels racing through the canopy. He missed Vergen and his Scoia’tael, and Ciaran’s wisdom and friendship.

After a moment, he walked past Zoltan and opened the door to the outside. It was bright out, maybe noon. The dwarf stood up, scratching his beard.

“Tell Geralt I will wait for him at the entrance to the Summit” Iorveth said before Zoltan could decide what to say. He glanced over his shoulder to the room in which he assumed Geralt and Triss were enjoying their reunion to the fullest.

“And where will you go until then?” Zoltan finally asked.

Iorveth turned away, breathing in the dusty air of Loc Muinne.

“To find Saskia.”

 

* * *

 

Geralt left Triss’ room with a hollow feeling, but also with relief. It was done. A task he had dreaded to do was now complete. He went to knock at Iorveth’s door, but Zoltan cleared his throat soundly. “The elf is gone” he said.

“What?” Geralt spun around. “Where did he go? Why did he leave?”

“Well, since you and Triss were busy fooling around—”

“I broke up with her!” Geralt snarled, grabbing one of the brown cloaks Dandelion had procured for them as disguises during the day. “Did he say where he went?”

“To find Saskia, apparently, though how he plans to do that, I have no idea. But never mind that, Geralt. You broke up with Triss? Over _Iorveth_?”

“Yes” Geralt answered back coldly. He was in no mood to justify his feelings to the dwarf when he barely understood them himself. “Take good care of her while I’m gone.”

“Sure, I guess …” Zoltan’s voice followed him outside into the bright early afternoon sun.

Where could the blasted elf have gone? They had no clue where Saskia was, that’s why they wanted to go to the Summit in the first place, because she had to be there in person or Vergen’s victory wouldn’t be acknowledged.

 _Unless he doesn’t want to see you again and that’s why he’s trying to avoid you by finding Saskia first._ Geralt cursed silently, taking a moment in the shadows to regroup. Iorveth was smart, a leader. He wouldn’t just run around chasing ghosts. He would have a plan to find Saskia. Now Geralt only had to find out what that plan was.

Philippa had told them that Saskia was with Síle, and that she herself didn’t know their whereabouts. A hidden place then, of which Loc Muinne surely had a great deal. Iorveth had no way of searching them all before the Summit, which was on the eve of the next day. Where then, would he begin his search?

Geralt rubbed his forehead, feeling stupid and useless. He had no idea. But could Iorveth really be in a different situation? Wouldn’t the proud leader first double-check the facts he did know? Like for example, if Philippa really didn’t know anything?

With a clear picture in mind, Geralt started running. He had to double-back a few times, but in the end, he found the entrance to Philippa’s house in which they had found the dagger. The door was thankfully closed by human hand, not magic, which made breaking in a lot easier.

Inside, it was dark and musty, at least until he reached the part of the house where his fight against the golem had broken the ceiling. Dustmotes hung in the air and boulders and debris littered the former carpet and long wooden table.

Geralt stood silently, staring at the aftermath of the battle, remembering Iorveth’s panicked look when he came for him, right before Geralt lost consciousness. Iorveth had carried him back to their hideout. That still sent a flutter through him, even knowing how things had turned out in the end.

“Admiring your handiwork?” a cool voice asked from behind him. Geralt whirled around, finding Iorveth leaning against the doorframe of Philippa’s former bedroom, arms crossed.

Geralt came forward, hand outstretched, but Iorveth leaned away from him, snarling. “Let it be, Gwynbleidd.”

The use of that old title cut through Geralt’s haze and rooted him back in reality. He noticed the strain in Iorveth’s shoulders and neck, the nervous twitch of his fingers, the emotionless mask slid back in place.

“Iorveth, I’m sorry” Geralt began, letting his arm drop, but stepping closer anyway. Iorveth took a step back. “I should have spoken to you sooner.”

“Why bother?” The elf turned away, walking into the bedroom, where Geralt spotted a pile of papers and letters strewn all over the floor. “I brought Triss back. We’re even now.”

“You didn’t owe me anything.”

“Didn’t I?” Iorveth held up his left hand, with the missing finger, the painful reminder of what he had lost in Flotsam, thanks in part to Geralt. “You saved my life, on the barge and in Vergen, you helped me get the dagger even though you hated me for it, you fought on Vergen’s side during the siege, you saved Saskia’s life … Tell me, Geralt, how I do _not_ owe you anything. Triss is safe now, so keep her company. After what they did to her, she needs it.”

That hurt, because Geralt knew he was right, but even more importantly, he realized just how deep Iorveth’s dislike for being saved ran. Was this the proud Aen Seidhe race speaking, or Iorveth’s bruised ego?

“Fine” he said. “You owe me your life, many times over, as I owe you mine. I’m sick of keeping count, so get over it.”

“You’re right” Iorveth agreed after a moment. “We are even. That’s why I shall save Saskia myself.”

“What are you talking about?” Geralt made another step inside until he stood face to face with Iorveth, could see the pain clear in his eye. “I’m a Witcher. I’m supposed to stay neutral. Why do you think I kept choosing sides? How many times must I choose you over Triss before you understand?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Must I spell it out for you?” Geralt snarled, grabbing Iorveth’s shoulders and roughly pushing him up against the nearest wall until their noses almost touched. “I love you, you stupid elf. I have never loved anyone more, and whatever happens after this is all over, after we get Saskia back to normal, after I’ve found Yennefer, I will come back to you. Nothing will keep me away, so get that into your thick Scoia’tael skull, you—”

Iorveth spared him the invention of a new colorful slur by ducking his head and kissing him, gentle as butterfly wings.

Geralt melted into his lips, soft beneath the cracked skin and salt. His hands unclenched, stroking instead in wonder over Iorveth’s shoulders and back and down his sides, fingers trailing over the supple muscle. Iorveth leaned into him, interrupting their kiss for a moment. “I may love you as well” he whispered hoarsely, letting Geralt crowd him further into the wall, free hands roaming along Geralt’s back.

Geralt smiled, nudging their foreheads together and inhaling deeply. “You smell like soap” he commented, untucking Iorveth’s bandanna and letting the red cloth drop to the floor.

Iorveth nibbled his neck, kissing his stubble. “ _You_ smell of blood and sweat.”

Geralt cringed. He hadn’t washed after fighting with Roche. “Sorry” he muttered, leaning away, but Iorveth held him fast.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it” he mumbled and went back to biting bruises into Geralt’s throat. Geralt let the heat of Iorveth’s tongue travel through his body, lighting his insides on fire. He felt himself harden in his trousers, and began unbuckling Iorveth’s armor. The elf muttered in disappointment when they had to separate for a moment, until they both stood only in their trousers in Philippa’s bedroom.

Geralt took Iorveth’s hand and pulled him to the giant bed that stood like a throne in the spacious room. They were a mess of tangled limbs and wet kisses, breaking apart only when one of them needed air to breathe. Geralt soaked in Iorveth’s affection that had seemingly been unlocked by his own admission of love. As if, until that moment, Iorveth had never actually let himself fall completely, always holding something back in case Geralt would leave him after all.

It was a gift of trust, and Geralt had every intention of honoring it.

 

* * *

 

“Let me try something” the witcher whispered into his ear. Iorveth shuddered from the rough timber voice, from being so enveloped by Geralt’s strength and heat and weight and the memory of their kisses that dwarfed everything they had done before. Kissing was different from sex. It was something reserved for the people one loved and cared for, and even though they had kissed, it had never, _never_ , been this all-consuming. Iorveth thought that if he died from lack of oxygen right now, it would be worth it.

“Try what?” he gasped. He lay tangled in the sheets, Geralt sitting up and kneeling above him, red-cheeked, glistening with the first drops of sweat, and glorious.

“Trust me?” Geralt asked. Iorveth looked up at him. Sighed.

“Have at it then.”

“Turn on your belly” Geralt ordered. Iorveth raised an eyebrow, but did what Geralt had asked. “Close your eyes.” That did involve some trust, considering they were in enemy territory so to speak, but if anyone could keep Iorveth safe in this place, it was the witcher currently hulking above him. Iorveth did as told. He felt Geralt’s weight lift the bed, then return a moment later. Geralt took his wrists and tied them together above Iorveth’s head with what he assumed was his bandanna.

“Is that how you want me?” Iorveth asked bemused. “Trussed up like a bird?”

“Hush.” Big fingers stroked over his spine, down to his lower back until they reached the seam of his trousers. They slipped inside, pulling on the fabric. Iorveth wriggled his ass a bit to help Geralt get the trousers off until he lay naked on his belly, hard cock pressing into the mattress. Suddenly, hands grabbed his hips and pulled him upwards, until he felt his buttocks raised in the air, cock and balls dangling.

“Geralt” he said, only barely keeping the tremor from his voice. “I’ll have you know this is not my preferred position—”

Something slick and wet pressed against his entrance.

Iorveth gasped, biting his lip to stop the sound from escaping completely. Geralt’s … Geralt’s _tongue_ twirled against the sensitive skin, probing the tight ring of muscles. He felt the witcher’s stubble on his ass, the strong fingers pulling apart his cheeks for better access. Iorveth gave another involuntary shudder, eyes desperately shut.

Geralt pulled back a moment, hot breath trailing over the spit-wet skin. “Is this good?”

“ _Bloede Vatt’ghern_ …” Iorveth leaned on his elbows, turning his head over his shoulder. “You’re crazy. Why would you want—”

“Not what I asked.” Geralt gently kissed the lowest point of his spine. “Is it good for you?”

Iorveth moaned, relaxing back into the bed. “Just … continue” he murmured, face flaring red. He couldn’t believe this. No one had ever done this for him. _He_ had never done it. And Geralt just … just …

The tongue returned.

Iorveth pressed his forehead into the bedding, mouth tightly shut. He didn’t trust himself to speak, to make a single sound. It was too much. The unfurling heat, the sheer thought of Geralt’s mouth _there_ , at his most intimate place, almost inside of him …

Despite his best efforts, it didn’t take Geralt long to break through Iorveth’s barriers.

The rhythmic movements of his tongue, slowly loosening up his opening and finally dipping inside, the squirming warm flesh, exploring his body with tenderness and sometimes a firm thrust, fingers gripping him, cool air from outside sliding over his sweat-slick back … It was enough to make Iorveth lose his mind.

He moaned, mouth hanging open in pleasure, some saliva trickling down his chin, but he didn’t care. He remembered Geralt declaring his love, evaporating all his fears and anger and disappointment in a few well worded sentences and felt Geralt kissing and licking and clawed his hands into the blankets, the bandanna holding his wrists tightly together.

After a few minutes, he started pushing back against Geralt, seeking more pleasure, wanting Geralt even closer than he already was. The witcher used one hand to help hold his entrance open, the other to stroke soothingly over his back and his trembling thighs, but never straying too close to his twitching cock.

It was maddening.

“Geralt …” Iorveth panted, “Geralt, please— ahhhhh …”

The witcher had found his prostrate. Iorveth thought he knew pleasure. But this was simple torture. He gasped, biting into the bedding, spreading his legs wider on instinct until the tip of his dripping cock almost touched the mattress. His fingers were stiff and cramped from holding so tight the whole time, and Geralt just continued, relentless, to massage his prostrate from the inside with the tip of his tongue and one finger he had added for extra pressure. Stars danced on the back of Iorveth’s eyelids, sweaty hair falling into his face. He couldn’t take this much longer, the waves of heat and lightning that started in his ass and flowed all the way through his body.

“Geralt, please” he begged, knowing how pitiful he sounded and not caring. “Faster … please, I need to come— _ahhh_ …”

“Already?” Geralt asked, coming up for air and leaving Iorveth feeling empty and cold. He sounded like a cat that just lapped up all the cream. Completely self-satisfied. “I wanted to draw this out a bit more. Remember how you like to tease me?”

“I don’t care.” Iorveth spoke into the mattress, unable to even lift his head for the moment. His heartbeat was slowly calming down from beating its life out inside his chest. He could barely breathe. “I need more, please, I’ll come untouched for you, I’ll beg, just let me come already!”

He received no answer. Instead, Geralt’s heavy hand returned to his back, starting at the nape of his neck and slowly stroking down, through the dip of his spine, over his tattoos and trembling flanks, down the cleft of his ass. The finger and tongue returned.

Iorveth cried out in relief, a few teardrops collecting in the corners of his eyes. Just a moment longer, and Geralt would …

Geralt added a second finger. Beside his tongue, the two digits squeezed into Iorveth’s rectum, stretching him out. He moaned, feeling the pressure against his prostrate rise, the pleasure pulsing through him. “Gods …”

The witcher’s tongue slipped in an out, flanked by the two thick fingers, seeking and finding his sweet spot every time. Shivering and moaning, Iorveth crested over into orgasm, screaming out in pleasure when Geralt stopped thrusting and instead kept pressing against his prostate long after Iorveth’s seed had shot onto the bed, racking his whole body with shudders. When Geralt finally withdrew, Iorveth crumpled into the sheets, limbs loose and motionless. Geralt lay down beside him, pulling him into a soft hug, kissing his brow, temple and ear.

“You liked that a lot” he said smugly, pushing a few stray hair strands away from Iorveth’s scarred eyesocket. Only in that moment did Iorveth realize his healthy eye lay closed on the mattress. Without thinking, he had let Geralt be with him in his most vulnerable state.

It felt wonderful.

“Guess I liked it a bit too much” Iorveth finally managed, weakly wiggling his bound wrists and tilting his head a bit more so he could see Geralt fully. The witcher looked at him through lust-blown eyes, lips shiny and swollen, face and chest flushed red. “I can’t move. Untie me?”

Geralt did, massaging Iorveth wrists where his thrashing had made the cloth bite into his skin too hard. Red marks showed all around. Iorveth found he liked the sight, his spent cock slowly twitching back to attention.

“Did you come?” he asked lazily after a moment.

Geralt shook his head, smiling. “Not yet.”

“Do you want to fuck me?”

Again, Geralt shook his head. “Not today. I want you to remember my tongue tomorrow when we go to the Summit.”

Iorveth swallowed his moan. No need to let Geralt know just how much that thought turned him on. They were both a bit too excited about their public plays. “Use my thighs then” Iorveth said, opening his legs a bit so Geralt could push his cock through the gap. After a moment of hesitation, the witcher did, unbuckling his trousers the rest of the way until they lay naked next to each other, hot skin against hot skin, Geralt spooning him from behind. One of his hands pressed up under Iorveth’s knee to reach the desired height, then he began to thrust.

It felt weird at first. His thighs were not exactly an erogenous zone, but the knowledge that it was Geralt, plus the memory of that tongue inside him, wreaking havoc against his prostate, was enough to get Iorveth excited. He stroked his own cock roughly in time with Geralt’s thrusts that the witcher accompanied with low grunts. The tip of his cock sometimes pushed against his balls and Iorveth leaned back heavily into the broad chest, letting Geralt’s other arm that lay trapped beneath him, enclose him in an embrace, fingers playing with the nearest nipple.

Geralt was already worked up from eating Iorveth out, so he came after a few minutes of fucking his thighs, biting into Iorveth shoulder until he snarled in pain and arousal. The witcher’s now free hand spread his seed around Iorveth’s cock, pulling him off with whispered praise and loving words.

It was the safest and happiest Iorveth had felt in forever.

The only shadow that dampened his mood was the thought of Saskia, still enslaved, and the knowledge that despite declaring his love, Geralt had not changed his mind about leaving for Yennefer.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt battles a dragon.

They met with Zoltan, Dandelion and Triss at the gate of the Summit, all of them huddled in their rough-spun cloaks to blend into the crowd. The guards lay unconsciously on the ground. Iorveth would have liked to take care of the dh’oine himself, but he didn’t have it in him to be overly disappointed. He felt sated in a way he couldn’t define. He stole a glance in Geralt’s direction and watched the two swords on his broad back sway with every step. Nothing had really changed in comparison to their time together in Vergen, nights spent together lazing in bed, sharing glances and teasing jokes, and yet, everything had.

_I love you. I will come back to you. I want you to remember my tongue._

It still gave Iorveth goosebumps as they walked up to Geralt’s friends, a tense mood hanging over them. Triss’ eyes were swollen and the bruises on her face looked worse than the day before, vibrant purple yellowing on the edges. Her gaze found his and they locked eyes for a moment. Iorveth wasn’t sure what he read in hers. Anger and pain, maybe, with a hint of resignation.

“Has it started already?” Geralt asked when they reached them, ignoring the dark atmosphere.

“Not yet” Dandelion answered. “Though the proceedings will commence shortly, so we should hurry.” While they made their way down the stone stairs, he kept speaking in hushed tones. “If anyone is interested, it turned out the Baron and Count _both_ ordered the bandit attack. Independently, I might add. Now Natalis has finally done the smart thing and taken command of Temeria, at least until Anais is of age. Keeping the other nobles in check will be an issue, but if anyone can manage, it’s him and his army.”

“Poor man” Triss said. “He never wanted to join politics. But I guess we don’t all get what we want in the end.”

Iorveth let that comment go. He knew what, or rather who, she was really talking about. Geralt on the other hand opened his mouth as if to answer, but then they heard loud discussions from ahead.

The deliberations were already under way. Iorveth immediately spotted Saskia, golden hair glinting in the sun. She stood on the stage with Síle, Natalis and Radovid, as well as another mage, in front of a huge bustling crowd of soldiers, nobles and a smattering of onlookers.

With Philippa gone and Henselt dead, Saskia seemed to have problems convincing Radovid of accepting her status as Queen of Upper Aedirn. Iorveth ground his teeth as the Redanian King belittled her achievements and status so openly.

“Everything we did in Vergen will be in vain at this point …” he muttered so that only Geralt could hear him. The witcher nodded absentmindedly.

“There’s still the dagger” he said and threw Iorveth a hard smile. “Don’t lose hope just yet.”

Ahead, the mage came forward, holding an official looking document. “If we could return to the matter at hand” he said, nodding into the round of monarchs, “this charter is the exact copy of the one found in the Thanedd Ruins, describing the new Council of the Conclave. The more important question is that pertaining to the royal advisors. If I may explain …”

Iorveth stopped listening and instead focused his attention back on Saskia—except that she was no longer there. He leaned close to Geralt, whispering. “Where has she gone?”

“To powder her nose, maybe” Geralt mumbled, but he didn’t look convinced.

“Under Philippa’s spell? Unlikely.”

“Radovid will not agree to the charter” Triss said suddenly. “He knows what it will mean.”

“The Conclave would gain full control over the king’s magical counsel” Dandelion explained, when he realized that neither Geralt nor Iorveth had been listening. “He will not give up that much power.”

A commotion stopped their whispered conversation. Iorveth stared in shock when he saw Letho of all people come forward in chains, flanked by two Nilfgaardian soldiers and followed by none other than Shilard, the ambassador. Next to him, Triss tensed up. He must have been the one that tortured her. She pulled her hood deeper to hide her tell-tale red hair.

“Your majesties” Shilard pronounced loudly, “I must interrupt for a moment. This morning, the man before you was found sneaking into the Nilfgaardian camp and trying to assassinate my very person. After much interrogation, he not only admitted blame for the murder of King Foltest and King Demavend, but also who gave him the orders to do so.”

Radovid turned fully towards the ambassador. “The kingkiller?” he asked, intrigued. “So tell us then, who employed him?”

One of the guards jerked on the chains, rattling the metal. “Tell them” he ordered.

“Sorceresses” Letho said, looking up. His hulking figure belied the speed with which he could move, which Iorveth had seen firsthand. There was no way Letho would have been caught by mere humans. He had to be here willingly. But why? “The Lodge contacted me. They wanted to kill the rulers that worked against the interests of mages.”

“There is a list we compiled” Shilard continued seamlessly, lifting it up. “This _Lodge_ consists of the following sorceresses: Margarita Laux-Antille, Keira Metz, Francesca Findabair, Triss Merigold”—beside him, Triss sucked in her breath—“Philippa Eilhart, Ida Emean, Assire var Anahid, Fringilla Vigo, and finally, Síle de Tansarville.”

All eyes slid towards Síle, the only sorceress on the list currently present. She stepped back, lifting her hands in a gesture of peace, but already throngs of soldiers stepped down the stairs, clad in blood-red mail and armed with crossbows and swords. The Order of the Flaming Rose, Radovid’s bloodhounds.

The mage with the charter stepped forward, uncertain. “Your majesty, what is the meaning of this?”

Radovid sighed in annoyance. “It means your charter is denied. Arrest them!”

Suddenly, there was chaos. Soldiers streamed down the stairs, separating Dandelion and Zoltan from the rest of the group, surrounding the mage and Síle with drawn crossbows, while the onlookers fled, screaming and stumbling over one another. Geralt grabbed Iorveth’s arm to keep him from getting swept away in the commotion.

 “Surrender, or Loc Muinne will see a massacre the like of Thanedd” Radovid declared.

Síle lifted her arms up. Triss gasped. “She’s working a spell. Quick, get behind me!”

Triss spoke a string of fluent words in elder speech, fast enough that the gaps between words melted away. Geralt pulled Iorveth with him, just in time. A mighty roar and the beat of gigantic wings filled the air, followed by the shattering of stone and the shrieks of soldiers as boulders and shrapnel of rock buried them.

Saskia had returned—as dragon.

Iorveth saw a giant piece of wall flow towards them and shatter against the shield that Triss had created. Then everything went up in flames.

“Good call” Geralt said, drawing his sword. On the broken wall, the dragon roared, teeth flashing in the sun, then beat its wings and lifted the heavy body from the ground. In its claw, Síle hung suspended.

“They’re fleeing” Iorveth cursed and jumped forward, away from Triss’ shield and right into the flood of soldiers.

 

* * *

 

Geralt saw Iorveth sprint away, right before Saskia spewed more fire into the crowd, lighting up soldiers like kindling. “Come!” he screamed and followed Iorveth through the flames, Triss right behind him.

Dragon-Saskia beat her wings a few times to reach the tower looming just ahead, where she landed and put Síle down. The sorceress vanished inside, while Saskia flew back down, spitting fire into the seats and stairs. The flames quickly raced around the whole colosseum, feeding on summer-dry plants and vines that climbed up the walls in Loc Muinne everywhere.

Iorveth didn’t even slow. Even without shields or magic to protect him, he dashed through the fiery chaos, up the last path that was still open, right towards the tower.

Triss procured another magical shield to keep her robes from catching fire, and Geralt did the same with Quen. They raced after the elf.

The stairs of the tower were in bad shape. Thanks to the dragon’s weight and a swing or two of its powerful tail, some parts of them had collapsed, forcing Geralt and Triss to jump the distance, while Saskia spewed in fire through every window and hole in the wall that she could find. Still, they didn’t catch up to Iorveth until they had reached the chamber right under the roof.

Síle stood in a device that Geralt thought looked like a megascope. Iorveth stood with his bow, arrow trained at her heart. “If you kill me now, no one will stop Saskia from destroying all of Loc Muinne” she said, nodding in the general direction of the sky where Geralt could hear Saskia’s roars and the screams of soldiers and onlookers still trapped by the flames. He hoped Zoltan and Dandelion had been smart enough to flee. Especially Dandelion liked to think of that particular ability as one of his finest.

“As if you’d save this place if I let you go” Iorveth drawled, pulling the arrow right to his covered up ear.

“Iorveth” Triss panted, coming up next to him. Her mouth was set in a grim line. “If you don’t mind, I’d like the honor.”

“So bloodthirsty, Merigold” Síle said, smiling. “Oh, I remember. Philippa told me the elf stole your man from you. But killing me will not bring him back, and it will not avenge King Foltest’s death, either. Letho is lying. He killed Demavend on our behest, that is true. The old fool was getting weak. Under his rule, Aedirn would have gone to shit eventually. But the Lodge didn’t want Foltest dead, or Henselt for that matter. A North without rulers is chaotic and weak. Just look at what happened to Temeria. And now my spies in Cintra tell me that Nilfgaard is at this very moment closing in on the Jaruga. There will be another invasion, and this time, with the North divided, there won’t be another miracle battle at Brenna.”

“And killing everyone in Loc Muinne is going to stabilize the kingdoms?” Triss asked bemused. “You pretend like this isn’t all your fault in the first place for giving Letho access to the Scoia’tael. If Emhyr var Emreis conquers us, the Lodge will be responsible.”

“Maybe so. But Radovid cannot be left unchecked. He has lost all reason and is no longer controllable. If we leave him be, soon a witch-hunt will begin, the like you have never seen, Merigold. Saesenthessis will kill anyone that gets hard from seeing a sorceress burn at the stake, and bury the tale of our betrayal in her flames. But it doesn’t matter. As much as I enjoyed this chat, you are all too late. The portal is already stabilized. And I prefer to leave when the party is still in full swing.”

With that, she lifted her arms, intoning a powerful spell. The room vibrated, pale blue lightning racing over the megascope and the stone walls, enveloping the sorceress. Suddenly, a red hue emanated from the crystals that surrounded Síle in a triangle. She screamed, her form flickering in and out of existence. “Something’s not right!”

Iorveth lowered his bow, while Triss waved him and Geralt ahead. “Take care of Saskia” she said. “Síle seems to have used a cracked diamond. I shall speak to her of my terms while she is in this truly unfortunate state.”

“Triss— Triss, remove it! Remove the diamond!”

“What do you say?” Geralt asked Iorveth. “Shall we leave the ladies to their chat?”

Iorveth smiled wolfishly, turning away. “I wouldn’t think of interfering.”

“I’ll give you anything you want!” Síle shrieked while Geralt and Iorveth made their way up top to the roof.

“Oh yes, you will” Triss said, her voice carried away by the sound of Saskia’s roar as they ascended.

“You have the dagger?” Geralt asked, drawing his silver sword. Iorveth nodded, throwing it to him.

“I will harass her from afar; you get in close and try to reach her heart.”

“Easier said than done” Geralt muttered, whirling his sword a few times to regain his feel for the weapon. He grabbed three potions from his belt, a Swallow, a Rook and a Golden Oriole. The poisonous substances raced through his bloodstream like lightning. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his heart beat faster and stronger. Already, he felt like he would lose his mind if he stayed still for too long. “Come on!” he roared, stepping forward, Quen activated and sword held before him in a two-handed grip. “Fight me, Saskia!”

A tail the length of three horses shot forward from behind the tower walls and crashed into Geralt’s shield, sending him flying backwards until he came to a halt right at the edge.

Iorveth screamed and let loose a hail of arrows, one after the other at the dragon. Saskia crawled up over the edge, shrugging off the projectiles with barely a reaction.

“Bloody creature is fast” Geralt gasped, sitting up. He had underestimated her strength and speed. Not again. “Keep it up” he ordered Iorveth and threw himself back into battle. He danced away from her claws and evaded a fire plume by dodging to the side. Coming out of his roll, he jumped forward, sword arm outstretched, and landed a hit with the blade. Dragon-Saskia roared, more in anger than in pain, and pulled her body forward, jaws snapping. Geralt had just enough time to throw himself backwards, a new Quen shield already falling into place around him. “This will be tough” he muttered under his breath, hefting the sword again.

Saskia meanwhile seemed to rethink her strategy. She pulled back again, the breaking of stone all around them betraying where she used her claws to hold onto the tower. Only her waving tail betrayed her position as she circled them. Geralt and Iorveth circled with her, trying to stay on the opposite ends of the round tower roof at all times, backs together.

“Can you do it?” the elf asked.

Geralt grimaced. “I’ll have to, won’t I. But dragons are tough. I don’t like my chances.”

“Keep it up” Iorveth said, throwing him a tiny grim smile. “You are Geralt of Rivia. Who else but you could do it?”

“I’m immune to flattery” Geralt snarled with a grin, then threw himself back into the fray when he noticed a claw inching up the tower. A second later, he noticed his error.

“GERALT!”

He spun around. Iorveth’s scream broke off abruptly when Saskia’s tail whipped around the other side of the tower and smashed the elf through the air. Noticing the attack from behind before Geralt had, Iorveth had thrown himself in between them. Geralt watched in horror as Iorveth landed in a broken heap, turned over repeatedly and finally slid towards the edge—

—and over.

Geralt blinked. But Iorveth was gone. An animalistic roar tore itself from his throat, ripping through his body with all the pain and rage a witcher could feel. Geralt rolled forward, slashing his sword through the claw, red-hot blood spurting over his hands.

The dragon howled, climbing back up the side and spitting fire in his direction, but Geralt deflected the attack with another Quen, wading through the flames and unleashing a flurry of sword thrusts at the scaly breast.

The shield started to deflate, but Geralt ignored the burning heat that singed the tips of his hair, trusting in the resistances the Oriole had given him. Suddenly, Saskia pushed off the tower, destroying half of it with the maneuver. With a roar, she flew at him, wings and jaws spread wide. Geralt didn’t dodge. He ran towards her.

With a scream, he leapt off the tower, impaling his sword in the back of Saskia’s neck and landing beside it. The momentum carried him down her back, but he held fast to the hilt of his embedded sword and did not let go, not even when Saskia began thrashing in the air, somersaulting, trying to shake him off with all her might.

Geralt felt tears of grief in the corners of his eyes, blown away by the ear-numbing wind, but he never let go. Instead, he climbed slowly forward, holding on for dear life, and finally thrust the sword as deep into the dragon’s neck as he could.

Saskia buckled in the air, slowly losing height. Geralt thrust the sword to the side and she cried out in pain, flying to the east and crashing right into a half-fallen tree. The trunk impaled her, and her heavy body lay motionless in the earth.

Geralt jumped off her back, taking his sword with him. He grabbed the dagger that Iorveth had given him before the fight and went up to Saskia who stared at him through half-lidded reptilian eyes.

His hand with the weapon shook. _She is under mind-control. She didn’t kill him on purpose._ Those were his thoughts. But it was hard to summon enough self-control not to simply kill her right then and there.

_He would never forgive you._

Geralt closed his eyes briefly, swallowing back the pain and tears that threatened to overwhelm him. Could Iorveth have survived? The answer was, of course, no. The tower was too high. And Geralt hadn’t seen him hanging from the edge when he and Saskia flew away. Iorveth, the man he loved, was gone.

“Be free” he rasped with a choked voice and rammed the enchanted dagger into Saskia’s beating heart.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saskia is freed. Iorveth's body is found.

Crimson blood flowed freely over the brown scales. For a moment, Geralt feared he had actually killed Saskia, missed the right spot somehow. Or, his traitorous mind supplied, that Philippa had lied to them all along, strung them around her finger on a fool’s hope.

And everything, every injury, and Iorveth’s death, would have been for nothing.

Geralt sank to his knees, clutching the fabric of his trousers and blinking heavily through his tear-stained vision. Loss ate through him like ants infesting his body.

“I’m sorry, Iorveth” he whispered, pressing his eyes shut against the image of his body tipping over the tower’s edge into nothingness.

“G-Geralt” a voice said. He looked up. Saskia stood before him, the gambeson beneath her black armor stained with fresh blood. She was shaky on her feet, but she grabbed him nonetheless. “We have to find him” she implored.

Geralt nodded, getting up. He grabbed her under the arm and helped pull her along, until she was strong enough to run by his side. At some point, she fell too far behind, but when he looked back, she shooed him along. “Leave me, I’ll manage. Just find him!”

He kept running, despite the armor he wore, despite the heartache and pain from the fire and fighting. He didn’t stop until the tower loomed above him. With a look into the gray and dreary sky, he tried to decide at what angle Iorveth would have fallen. He scrambled up the hillside, checking and checking again for signs. Finally, he had almost rounded the whole tower, with no sign of the elf.

“Here!”

Geralt’s head shot up. He found Triss standing on the crumbled wall, waving at him, face dire. “This way.”

With a feeling of dread, Geralt climbed up the wall, letting Triss help him up. “Iorveth” he said, looking around. “Is he—”

His eyes found the elf. He lay on the ground, on Triss’ brown coat, motionless.

“No …” Geralt mumbled, falling to his knees next to the elf. “Please, no.”

“I’m so sorry” Triss said quietly, going down on her knees as well and putting an arm around him. “By the time I saw him fall past my window, it was almost too late. I managed to break his fall a bit and there was some shrubbery I enchanted to catch him, but whatever hit him on the tower was powerful.” She looked at him inquiringly.

“Dragontail” Geralt said numbly, staring at Iorveth’s body. His face and hands were scratched up from the thorny shrubbery, but more than that, his head bled and his arm and leg seemed broken. Triss had already bound the limbs up with sticks to make them more stable.

“His body should be fine in time” Triss said after a moment. “A few broken bones, no internal damage as far as I can tell. But he hit his head pretty hard. It all depends on whether he’ll wake up again. I’m so sorry, Geralt. I wish I could have done more for him.”

Geralt shook his head, intertwining his fingers with Iorveth’s. He felt empty inside. “You did plenty.”

“Maybe I can help” Saskia’s voice said behind them. They turned around. The dragoness had caught up to Geralt. “I would usually never offer this, but since it is my fault that Iorveth fell from the tower, I want to help. Triss, I have heard from you. Are you gifted in the art of healing potions?”

Triss looked taken aback. “Healing potions? I’ve made a few, during my studies, but I am in no way an expert—”

“What if you had a very special ingredient, one most mages would kill for?”

“I guess there are some that make it easier, but I still don’t … oh, of course! But are you sure? It will weaken you.”

“I am.”

Geralt looked up from Iorveth’s body, to Triss and Saskia. “What are you talking about?”

“Dragon blood, Geralt” Triss said excitedly. “Saskia just offered hers. It is one of the most powerful alchemical ingredients known to man, and is used in a variety of medicines. We need to get him somewhere safe where I can work in peace. Geralt, help me.”

Geralt still felt numb. Only slowly did her excitement register with him completely. There was hope after all. Together, they carefully carried Iorveth around the burned down tower and all the way through Loc Muinne to Philippa’s old house. While Saskia and Triss began searching the sorceress’ bookshelves for a fitting cure and made sure Iorveth was comfortable, Geralt went back to their own hide-out, where he thankfully managed to find Zoltan and Dandelion. “We’re moving our base” he declared, once the relieved greetings were done with and he was sure both his friends were unharmed.

Together, they returned to Philippa’s house, where Triss was already busy collecting blood from a cut in Saskia’s arm. The woman Iorveth had almost died for looked gray and tired by the time Triss was done. “I needed a lot, and she has already lost a good deal during your fight” she explained when Saskia rolled up on her side and fell promptly asleep.

Dandelion grabbed his lute, going through some silent note variations, muttering something about a new ballad.

Zoltan went to Saskia and pulled a blanket over her. He coughed. “So, uh, Iorveth’s hurt?” he asked.

Geralt nodded, still not trusting these new proceedings. Triss gave a wave, then holed herself up in one of Philippa’s labs, a huge phial of steaming blood in her hand.

The dwarf smacked Geralt hard on the back. “You look like hell, old friend” he said. “Get some sleep. Or kneel down at a fireplace somewhere, whatever helps. Nothing you can do from here on out anyway. Just let Triss do her thing. But it’s ironic, ay? Old flame saving the new one …”

“Shut up, Zoltan.”

 

* * *

 

Despite Zoltan’s well-meaning advice, Geralt was not able to sleep for even a second. At some point during the night, he left the house for a walk, only to be greeted by the stench of burned flesh. He followed the smell until he saw the first impaled mages, corpses burned down until no features but blackened flesh remained.

Radovid had gotten his massacre after all.

Bile rose in his throat. There was no sign of life anywhere. Radovid and his Order of the Flaming Rose, as well as all the other rulers and their soldiers had left already, and everyone else was dead.

Who he did find, however, was Letho. The witcher sat at the fountain in the middle of what had been Temeria’s camp. When Letho saw him, he greeted him with a wave. Geralt went towards him, fists balled. He was immensely glad he had brought his swords with him.

“Am I strong enough to fight you now?” he taunted, coming to a halt a few meters away. “Or will you tuck tail again and kidnap one of my friends like in Flotsam?”

Letho shook his head. “I needed Triss. I didn’t harm her, did I?”

“Not directly, perhaps, but I have a feeling you were the one that informed Cynthia of her arrival. So you are responsible for her torture, not to forget the Scoia’tael unit your treason killed. I’d say that qualifies you for _doing harm_.”

“Your elf lover has traded me his forgiveness in exchange for helping him save Triss” Letho said, rough voice rumbling. “Surely that counts for something?”

“That’s his forgiveness, not mine.”

“You don’t want to know then?” Letho continued, unimpressed. “What happened to Yennefer after you were taken by the hunt? Why I killed all those kings?”

Geralt stared at him. “I do want to know. But I cannot promise that I will not kill you after, so it’s your decision.”

“Ah, Geralt …” Letho smiled. “You’re still the same as always. Then let’s speak. And afterwards, fight.”

Geralt listened gravely as Letho explained about the Wild Hunt, Yennefer being exchanged for Geralt, and how he, Auckes and Serrit had brought her to Nilfgaard.

“I’ll tell you one thing, she was annoying” Letho said. Geralt snorted. He had heard that description before. “I’d have left her behind somewhere in Angren, but you cared enough for her to sacrifice yourself, so I didn’t.”

“So she is in Nilfgaard now?”

“She was, at some point. Had some dealings with Emhyr, as far as I know. I haven’t seen her since.”

“Right.” Geralt stared at Letho, at the scars marring his burly face and upper body, the medallion around his neck. On closer inspection, it looked like a snake. “So why all the dead kings? Philippa said you worked together with Nilfgaard, is that true?”

“After we arrived with Yennefer, and much less than pleasant interrogation, Emhyr made us an offer. Kill the kings, sow chaos and prepare the North for the invasion. The last attempt failed because of their united front. And shall I tell you something? It worked perfectly. The countries are in turmoil, the alliances shaken. Nilfgaard has already won this war.”

Geralt sighed, drawing his sword. The Witcher only smiled slyly. “Is it time already?”

“Just one more question” Geralt said. “What did he offer you?”

Letho picked up the medallion from his chest and held it up. “School of the Viper. It was destroyed a long time ago. The place I grew up in, trained in. My _home_. He promised to rebuild it. Maybe you understand that. Maybe not. Either way …” He jumped backwards onto the fountain. “Do you still want to fight?”

“Yeah” Geralt said, twirling his sword and falling into fighting stance. “Let’s finish this.”

 

* * *

 

When it was over, Geralt returned exhausted to Philippa’s house. He wondered if in another world, where Iorveth was not fighting for his life, where Triss had not been tortured, where so many Scoia’tael hadn’t lost their lives, he and Letho could have separated peacefully. As old friends, even.

“Geralt, what in the gods’ names happened?” Triss asked when he entered bloodspattered and with a serious limp. “Not another injury! I am not a priestess of Melitele!”

“It’s nothing bad” Geralt said, dropping his swords in a corner. “How is he?”

“The potion is still in the making” Triss said, immediately turning serious. “I sent Saskia and Zoltan to find some ingredients that I need. None of the actual ones are at hand, but there are a few substitutes. In magic there is never just one way to work a spell.” Geralt laughed silently. “What?”

“Nothing. Just that Philippa said the exact same thing.”

“Ugh, don’t compare me to that cold-hearted bitch …”

“Also, you send the Queen of Upper Aedirn to fetch you herbs.”

“It’s not like I had many options” Triss complained, sitting down on a wooden chair and thumbing through the book of tinctures she used for the cure. “Should I have sent Dandelion? He’d bring me poison for all he knows about plants.”

“He’d be proud of it, too.”

“Geralt …” Triss looked up at him. “I know I shouldn’t ask, not with how things are right now. I see how much his state eats you up inside. You really care, a lot. But I keep wondering … why didn’t it work out between us? Was I too nagging? Too distant?”

“Triss, no.” Geralt knelt down in front of her, taking her hands. Tears were dripping down her cheeks, but she didn’t blink, just waited for his explanation. “None of this is your fault. You are wonderful, that hasn’t changed. I guess I’ve just … accepted that most of my memories will never return. I remember the important things now, thanks to all the people that told me. I can remember dying, and Yennefer, and you, but there are still so many holes. Iorveth was someone I got to know from the beginning, all little things included. He is proud and stubborn and a bit of an ass to most people, but he also cares. He really does, despite everything. I fell in love with him. That’s the whole reason. That doesn’t mean I don’t love you anymore, or Yennefer. It just shifted a bit.”

Triss nodded with a sigh. “I think I understand. It’s just so difficult for me. While I was an artefact, no time passed. It was like a deep, terrible sleep. So being together in Flotsam, joking around, making love … that feels like it was only last week. When for you, it’s been over a month.”

“I know.”

“Once Iorveth is healed, I will leave you. I hope you understand why.”

He nodded.

“I might go to Novigrad, try to help the witches there. After Radovid’s massacre here, I fear what it will mean for the magical community.”

“I wish you all the best. Maybe we’ll see each other there, if I come through in my travels.”

She wiped off her tears and smiled. “I would like that. But why would you come through? Won’t you return to Vergen with Saskia and Iorveth?”

Geralt shook his head. “I need to find Yennefer first.”

“Right …” Triss stared into space. “Does he know about this plan?”

“He doesn’t approve, but he accepted it.”

“That’s good. It’s not a light decision, for either of you. It might be months, even years, before you can return to him.”

“I know.”

“You never make it easy for yourself, do you?” Triss asked, laughing and standing up. “Now go to him. I have some more preparations to do before the herbs get here.”

 

* * *

 

It took six more days before the medicine was complete. Triss was, as she had accurately stated, not a priestess of Melitele, and no expert in healing potions, so the first batch went horribly wrong and she had to start again from scratch.

Finally though, they all stood together around Iorveth, who lay unmoving in his bed, only the faint rise and fall of his ribcage betraying that he was alive at all.

Triss opened his mouth and poured in a reddish brown concoction, emptying the phial to the last drop. Then she muttered a spell, her voice resonating in the tall room. They all held their breath. Geralt sat down on the side of the back, holding Iorveth’s cold hands, massaging the rough skin, the stump where once a little finger had been.

Nothing happened.

“Wake up” he whispered, leaning forward until his head rested next to Iorveth’s, nose nuzzling his cheek. “Please, come back, Iorveth.”

A hand gripped his shoulder in silent comfort. He looked up. It was Saskia. “Give it time.”

Geralt nodded. Just then, he heard a hitch in Iorveth’s breathing. “I think it’s working” he said, sitting back a bit. Iorveth breathed again, a bit more deeply than before. Then, ever so slowly, his remaining eyelid cracked open. His sight refocused before he finally seemed to actually see him. Geralt stroked his face, thumb caressing the fallen-in cheek. “You’re back” he whispered, in wonder. Iorveth’s hand gripped his, just a bit tighter.

“Guess I am …” he slurred, head lolling to the side. “Saskia?”

“Here” the uncrowned queen said, stepping up behind Geralt into Iorveth’s view. “I must thank you both. For defending Vergen, and for freeing me. I shall never forget it.”

A smile spread out over Iorveth’s face and his eyes closed again. “Tired …” he mumbled.

Geralt laughed. “You just slept a week.”

“Let him rest, Geralt” Triss said. She had tears of relief in her eyes. Even though she didn’t even know Iorveth that well, even though he had replaced her at Geralt’s side, she could still feel this much honest happiness and it made Geralt’s heart tighten up.

“Stay” Iorveth said, pulling at Geralt with no strength at all. “Please.”

Geralt shrugged in Triss’ direction and slipped under the blankets next to Iorveth, holding him close and never letting go of his hand. Iorveth’s head turned in his direction. A sly glint appeared in his eyes and he kissed Geralt on the corner of his mouth where he could reach him. Geralt turned into him, kissing back, gently and carefully, but with all the despair that fell off of him at the sight of Iorveth awake and on the path of recovery.

“Melitele’s tits” Zoltan muttered from his corner of the room. “I’ll never get used to this sight …”

“Come on” Triss said, grabbing her friends and pulling them outside. “There’s time for teasing later.”

“She took it well” Iorveth murmured into Geralt’s mouth. He nodded.

“Better than expected. Rest now. I will tell you everything later.”

“Letho … what happened to him? Did he flee?”

“I killed him. Thought you might appreciate the gesture.”

Iorveth sunk deeper into the mattress, an expression of peace on his face. “I do. Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“You’re the most honorable human I know.”

Geralt lifted an eyebrow. “I’m not human.”

“Ha! I’m glad you reminded me. My hatred for the species abated for a moment.” His eye closed. But he wasn’t finished speaking. “Geralt? When will you leave?”

Geralt looked at him, at his gaunt face, the bandages around his head. The pain on his face.

“Not yet” he whispered, kissing Iorveth again, their breath mingling in the space between them. “Not for a while.”


	24. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Promises are kept.

_One year later_

Geralt stretched his shoulders and let his pen drop onto the table. He examined his handiwork. The letters looked a bit crooked, not elegant like Yennefer’s or curvy and rounded like Triss’. Still, it would get the job done.

“B.B.!” he called, grabbing the letter and leaving the room. He immediately found himself in the lushly decorated dining room of Corvo Bianco, his current home. With all the renovations complete, the estate had become a jewel worthy of Toussaint’s reputation. His majordomo already stood waiting, the round black glasses hiding the expression in his eyes, but Geralt knew very well Barnabas-Basil did not like the nickname. With a crooked smile, he gave the man his letter. “Arrange for a delivery to a mining town in Upper Aedirn called Vergen.”

The majordomo inclined his head. “At once, sir. May I inquire as to who it is addressed to?”

“His name is Iorveth. An elven archer in the service of her majesty, Queen Saskia. He has a house somewhere in the new sector west of the main city.”

“It shall be done with greatest haste. I know of a messenger that usually rides during war negotiations, when time is of the essence, but I am sure for the right sum he will take up this mission.”

“Do it.”

“If I may pose another question … will a reply be expected?”

Geralt shook his head. “No. It is more of an … invitation.”

 

* * *

 

After this announcement, Barnabas began preparing festivities and ordering a deep clean of the whole estate with the excitement of a child that was finally given its favorite toys to play with, nevermind the fact that it would take weeks for the messenger to deliver the message and equally as long for Iorveth to arrive.

Geralt knew Iorveth didn’t need any of these luxuries, but he felt bad for having B.B. in his service and never letting the man flex his muscles. Barnabas would have been better suited for a vineyard that traded in wine and hosted parties and wine-tastings every week.

Here, Geralt had decided that everything looked neat enough and needed no further work. As a result, Barnabas often seemed bored, though he never complained. They played Gwint from time to time, but Geralt had his witcher work, and when he didn’t he was content to ride through the hillsides or do business in Beauclair.

So, he indulged Barnabas a bit by ordering fancy ingredients for Marlene to cook with, a new decorative set of paintings for the guest room, and fifty more bottles of his favorite wine.

Weeks went by, the preparations saw servants hurrying to and fro, and Geralt spent the time mostly away, trying to escape the hustle. One evening, some eight weeks later, he returned from one his smaller missions on Roach’s back, scratching her ear while he rode into the yard. In front of the stables, a nervous servant girl named Louise stood wringing her hands. “Sir!” she exclaimed when he jumped off Roach’s back and gave her the reins. “The majordomo bid me tell you that in your absence the guest has arrived!”

Geralt’s heart made a somersault. “Thank you.” He hurried inside. The moment he threw the main doors open, his eyes locked onto Iorveth.

The elf stood in front of one of the more eccentric paintings. It was, in fact, the one in which Geralt lay naked on his side, his crotch only hidden by some well-placed bushels of grass, and stared off dreamily into the distance. It never usually hung there; Geralt had had it brought up from the cellar two weeks ago.

Iorveth turned around to him, single eyebrow lifted. He looked the same as always. Red bandanna with a raven’s feather, heavy green and brown armor robes, and his giant bow slung over his shoulder.

New was the easy smile on his face, with a mocking curl to his lip. He spread his arms, turning a bit as if to encompass the whole place with one gesture. “I must say” he drawled, “when you promised me wine, I did not think you would buy a whole vineyard.”

“What can I say?” Geralt answered, crossing his arms smugly. “I strive to please.”

“Moreover” Iorveth continued, as if he hadn’t heard him, “when you pronounced that you had one last mission to take after our battle against the Wild Hunt, I expected something less comfortable. More grim and deadly, if you take my meaning.”

“The _deadly_ business is already finished” Geralt said, coming closer finally. “This is simply my reward. From the duchess herself, in eternal thanks for my bravery and valor.” Iorveth's eye crinkled with silent laughter.

 “So when will you offer me some of that wine?” the elf asked, also coming around the table.

“In just a moment” Geralt said. Then he grabbed Iorveth’s head and kissed him.

Iorveth made a small sound of surprise before melting into Geralt, clawing at his shirt and biting his lip, pressing so close that Geralt could hear his elevated heartbeat, smell the grime and sweat of a long and hasty travel. He kissed every inch of Iorveth’s face that he could reach, then slowly made his way down his neck, while Iorveth sighed and let his head fall backwards.

From the corner of his eye, Geralt detected Barnabas, standing unobtrusively off to the side as usual, waiting for orders. “B.B.” Geralt said, “please fill the large bathtub in the guestroom, and tell Marlene to prepare a light dinner to go with our best wine. We shall eat while we bath.”

Barnabas coughed. “At once, sir. I will leave you to your guest.”

“You sound like a nobleman” Iorveth teased once Barnabas had left to get some servants. “Has Touissant ruined you for the likes of me?”

“Never” Geralt said and took Iorveth’s hand. “Come on. Until the bath is ready, I’ll show you the estate.”

 

* * *

 

Iorveth was surprised to find that he liked Corvo Bianco. When he had received Geralt's invitation, a simple letter containing no more than his current address and _"I will wait"_ written beneath, he had feared the worst. Toussaint was known for its splendor and wine, beautiful beyond belief and steeped in knightly tales of honor.

To Iorveth, it screamed of hypocrisy and lies. Yet Corvo Bianco was beautiful without losing its charm. Wherever he looked, Iorveth detected Geralt's touch. In the large stables with plenty of room for Roach, the grinding stone and armory, the relaxed atmosphere all around.

The suggestive painting.

It all was quite lovely, and Iorveth enjoyed Geralt's tour immensely, though that may have been in part due to the fact that they were finally reunited.

After their parting at Loc Muinne, when Iorveth had recovered enough from his injuries to make the return journey with Saskia back to Vergen, he had met Geralt exactly two times until now. During one of his trips to the local Scoia'tael in the occupied Redania, where he and Geralt enjoyed a hasty and desperate night together, having spent seven months apart at that time, and then during the Wild Hunt's attack on Kaer Morhen, where Geralt had brought all his friends to fight and defend Ciri. Despite their best efforts, there had been no time for intimacy. Iorveth was glad he had gotten to know the girl at least. She was bright and kind and terrifying in her fierceness. The bond between her and Geralt was obvious.

He also made the not quite so anticipated acquaintance of Yennefer, who was neither kind nor welcoming, but definitely terrifying. She was also the main reason for their lack of privacy, the other being Lambert’s constant teasing.

Now, nearly a whole year after Loc Muinne and his fall from the tower, Geralt finally seemed ready to return with him to Vergen.

“Iorveth?” Geralt's voice ripped him from his thoughts. There was a mischievous glint in the witcher’s eyes. “The bath is ready.”

They returned to the guestroom. As promised, Geralt's majordomo had prepared a huge wooden bathtub standing in the middle of the room. Fresh towels were arranged on a nearby chair and a tablet with grapes, an assortment of cheeses, soft bread and olives, as well as a bottle of wine with two delicate glasses stood on a low table next to the tub.

In the corner of the room, there even was a low wooden basin, just big enough for a man to stand in and with high sides to catch the water from the jug next to it.

“The man has thought of everything” said Geralt, sounding impressed.

“Are you surprised?” Iorveth teased, taking off his weapons and putting them down in a corner. “This is your own estate.”

“I haven't had many guests over for a bath, you know” Geralt said, helping Iorveth with his belt and armor. Iorveth felt warmth radiate from his rough hands when the fingers brushed his skin.

“No?” Iorveth asked. “I'm sure you were lonely during your time here.”

“Of course” Geralt murmured, kissing his neck from behind, “but you're here now.”

Iorveth sighed, letting his chin drop down to allow Geralt more access. “Geralt. It's been a year. We met twice in that time. I would understand if you …”

“Oh, that's what you’re worried about” Geralt whispered into his skin, skimming his lips higher behind Iorveth's ear. “I have waited.”

“With no one in between?” Iorveth muttered, almost giddy with the curling heat in his belly.

Geralt paused with his mouth right beside Iorveth's ear. “No one” he breathed.

Iorveth almost crumbled.

“You?”

“Who would I even ask?” Iorveth laughed. “Yarpen maybe?”

Geralt chuckled lowly. “I guess not.”

“Help me undress already” Iorveth said, turning around in Geralt's embrace. Soon, he stood naked in front of a fully clothed Geralt. It was a weird feeling, since usually it was the other way around, but Geralt didn’t seem to mind the change. His eyes roamed over Iorveth’s body with unconcealed hunger. Iorveth ignored the heat rising in his cheeks. Ever after all this time, he couldn’t quite believe that Geralt actually wanted him, scars and all.

“Basin” Geralt commanded quietly, picking up the pitcher and thick cloth. Iorveth stepped into it, shivering a little bit. The witcher came up behind him, kissing the base of his neck once more before pouring some of the hot water over his back. Iorveth sighed when he felt the heat suffuse into his strained muscles and when Geralt began rubbing his back with the cloth. He let Geralt wash him slowly, alternating between pouring water and cleaning dirt and grime off his body.

Finally, Geralt reached his ass. He took his time there, massaging his buttocks, cleaning the cleft between them, ghosting a finger or two over Iorveth’s entrance, then getting more water and pressing gently against the opening.

Iorveth felt the squirming tightness in his belly, slowly travelling into his groin. But Geralt did nothing else, just cleaned him up, then went to his knees behind Iorveth to have better access to his legs and feet.

At last, he seemed satisfied with his work and got up again. “Turn around” he said. Iorveth did. Geralt’s eyes twinkled in delight when his gaze fell on Iorveth’s half-hard cock. Still, he didn’t rush. He cleaned up Iorveth’s face and chest, his arms, his belly. Only then did he reach Iorveth’s cock. Instead of using the washcloth, he used only his hand, gently rubbing and stroking Iorveth to full hardness while nuzzling his neck, the hair of his beard tickling and scratching deliciously. Iorveth moaned, slinging his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, holding on when Geralt increased the pace of his hand, pulling Iorveth off with a smile against his throat.

But before Iorveth could come, he let off. “You’re clean enough now” he whispered, stepping back and finally, _finally_ dropping his own clothes to the floor.

The water in the tub which must have been scalding hot before was now just the right side of hot. Iorveth got in first, scooting back a bit with his legs to allow room for Geralt on the other side. The water lapped up to their chests. It relaxed Iorveth to see Geralt was just as hard as him, even without ministrations. Iorveth used his new position to put a foot up, gently pressing it against the witcher’s cock.

Geralt gasped, curling inwards, then looked up at him with a smirk. “Tease” he declared.

“I could say the same” Iorveth said, grinning. “Now, what about that wine?” He never stopped massaging Geralt with the base of his foot while the witcher leaned over and pulled the tablet closer to the tub. He presented the wine bottle so that Iorveth could read the name. “White Wolf, hm?” he asked, tilting his head. “How fitting. I wonder what it tastes like.”

Geralt poured a glass. “Find out” he said and drank a sip, then he leaned forward and kissed Iorveth. Lips parted above his own, the flavor of elderberry and ripe grapes suffusing their mouths. Iorveth whirled his tongue through the wine, finding Geralt’s, and deepened the kiss. Geralt leaned over him so completely that Iorveth’s head lay back on the tub. Finally, they parted, Geralt sitting back and Iorveth swallowing the last few drops of wine.

“Delicious” he whispered, leaning forward and trailing a fingertip down Geralt’s adam’s apple and chest into the water to his pelvis. “But not quite as good as the original.” Geralt’s pupils blew wide as Iorveth sank down into the water in front of him and took his cock in his mouth.

Blowing someone underwater was quite difficult, Iorveth quickly found out. He couldn’t stay on Geralt long, and couldn’t take him as deep as he wanted. Instead, he licked and teased, playing with his balls and massaging the base while kissing the tip.

He heard Geralt’s moans only in choppy intervals whenever he came up for air. After a while, he felt Geralt’s hands wander into his dark hair, holding on with a tight grip but leaving Iorveth free to do as he liked underwater. Iorveth sucked him off, increasing his speed and staying down as long as he could.

Geralt jerked beneath him and moaned loudly, pulling on Iorveth’s hair until it hurt. Salty cum filled his mouth. Iorveth swallowed, coming up for air and panting hard. He stared at Geralt, whose face was glowing with lust.

“You are beautiful” the witcher said, letting his fingers wander through Iorveth’s long hair and coming to rest at the side of his face, close to the scar that marred his right side. “All of you.”

“If you say it too often, you’ll make me believe it someday” Iorveth muttered, putting his own hand over Geralt’s.

“Good. Because it’s true.”

Iorveth leaned into his touch, the calloused hand. “I have been thinking” he began, looking up at Geralt, wet hair dripping, “about our first night. About the limits you named. Did anything change?”

Geralt looked at him, not answering for a moment. “Sometimes” he finally said, “I think that I wouldn’t mind a leash, so long as it belonged to you.”

Iorveth swallowed thickly. “I’ll keep it in mind” he said slowly, to give himself time to think. This was not something to do lightly, or even soon. Still, the possibility of it in the future … It gave him ideas. But for tonight, he had others. “Shall we eat and then continue in the bedroom?”

Geralt threw a look at Iorveth’s still hard cock. “Sounds like a plan.”

 

* * *

 

As delicious as the food was, it felt like torture to eat while his cock throbbed with unspent seed. Iorveth tried hard to not let Geralt notice, but there was no way he could keep his agitation from the witcher, who took advantage from the situation by _accidently_ brushing against his groin with a foot or _accidently_ letting his fingertips linger a moment too long against Iorveth’s lips while he fed him grapes and cheese.

Finally though, they left the tub. The moment Iorveth stood outside, he looked to Geralt. “Kneel” he said.

The witcher’s eyes met his, a dark promise alighting between them. Geralt let the towel fall to the floor and went down, palms open on his knees.

“I see you remember our code” Iorveth said, slowly walking to Geralt, fisting his hair and pulling his head back so that Geralt looked up at him. “Have the rules changed?”

“Not for me.”

 Iorveth walked around him, coming to a halt behind him and pulled the hair stronger until Geralt could barely swallow. “Then surely you remember how to address me?”

“Yes, Iorveth. Forgive me.”

Iorveth let go. “Get up and dry me off.”

Geralt did. He took his time, and Iorveth let him. Tonight, they would not rush. When Geralt was done, he put the towel down and awaited Iorveth’s next command.

Iorveth let him wait. He put on the gray linen trousers that the majordomo had left behind on a stool and draped a robe loosely around his shoulders, keeping it open at the front. Then he made a gesture for Geralt to walk ahead.

“Lead the way to your bedroom” he said. “If you fear being seen, you may warn the staff to leave the house for the night.”

He could see Geralt wrestle with the proposal. Iorveth had given him the option on purpose. He wanted to see if Geralt was in a mood for public display tonight or if he’d prefer privacy after so much time apart.

Finally, he seemed to come to a decision. He left the room, Iorveth right behind him, a hand on his back in silent support. At the top of the stairs, he stopped. “B.B.!” he called down. “Please come up for a moment.”

Iorveth lifted one eyebrow, massaging small circles into Geralt’s spine. After a few seconds, they heard steps coming up. Soon, B.B. appeared, only halting for a second at the sight of Geralt naked and Iorveth halfway clothed behind him. “How can I be of service, sir?” he asked.

“Please provide a flask of our best oil to my bedchambers, as well as soft-boiled rope and whatever cloth you think might be suitable for a blindfold. Then take Marlene and leave the house for the night. Do not return until midday tomorrow.”

The majordomo’s eyes were hidden behind round dark glasses. Iorveth wondered if his gaze strayed even once from Geralt’s face, for he only bowed and said “It will be done as you requested, sir”, then turned around and went to work.

“Good staff is hard to come by” Iorveth said, whistling. “How did you find him?”

“He was part of my reward. He is worth his weight in gold.”

“I can see that. And soft-boiled ropes? You have done your research.”

“As you said, I was lonely and bored. I had a lot of time the last eight weeks.”

“Mhm …” Iorveth nuzzled his neck from behind, breathing in the scent of soap. “I love a man who is prepared. Now go down. I think I heard the front door.”

And so they descended the stairs, Geralt naked and Iorveth behind him. As expected, the ground floor was deserted. Candles lit the dining room and hallways and a bouquet of freshly cut flowers adorned the head table. Iorveth paused a second, frowning. He didn’t remember the flowers being there when he arrived. How efficient _was_ this Barnabas?

In the bedroom, Geralt’s giant bed was freshly done up, the requested items lying in a tray on the low dresser.

“I could get used to this” Iorveth drawled, going over to the tray and browsing through the items Barnabas had brought. “Good quality.” Without changing his tone of voice, he continued, “Get on the bed on all fours, weight on your elbows, ass up. My, what a good man. He even brought thinner cloth for a gag. Delightful.”

When he turned around, he found Geralt in the position he had described, ass up, chest lowered to the bed. “Now stretch your arms backwards, parallel to your legs.” Geralt obliged. Iorveth took the rope from the tray and went over to the bed. Geralt looked up at him from his position, left side of his face pressed into the mattress.

“Like this?”

“Exactly like that.” Iorveth smiled. “Now don’t move. I haven’t done this in a long time, so I might need a moment to get it right. Be patient.” He squeezed Geralt’s balls for a moment, eliciting a soft gasp from the witcher. “I will make it worth your while.”

“I never doubted that—ah!”

“Cheeky today, aren’t we?” Iorveth asked, slapping Geralt’s other ass cheek for good measure. Already red blotches formed on both sides. Geralt was panting beneath him, eyes pressed firmly shut. “What is your word?”

“Ciri.”

“Good. Remember it. And if you feel like circulation to your limbs becomes a problem, alert me at once. Understood?”

“Yes, Iorveth.”

Iorveth placed a tender kiss to the base of his spine in approval, then continued tying Geralt up. It was long work. The ropes were not all the same length, so he had to improvise on a pattern he didn’t perfectly remember in the first place, but Geralt’s squirming and harsh breathing when Iorveth rewarded his patience with a few quick strokes of his cock or a teasing brush of his thumb against Geralt’s entrance were payment enough.

Finally, Geralt knelt tied up on the bed, wrists bound to his ankles, chest pressed into the mattress and his legs parted securely with a piece of stabilized rope between his thighs. Iorveth admired his handiwork, ignoring for now the surging heat in his groin and the throbbing of his length. Geralt came first tonight, and he had plans to keep him going long past what Geralt might think he could endure.

“Would you like the blindfold or gag?” Iorveth asked after a moment, deciding he didn’t want to go too quickly. This was still their first time in many months, and they had all the time in the world ahead of him. As predicted, Geralt shook his head, or as well as he could in his position at least.

“I want to see you” he said in a low voice that raised Iorveth’s arm hair on end. Without waiting longer, he threw off his robe and knelt down behind Geralt on the bed, pressing his bulge against Geralt’s spread ass. The witcher keened, pushing back against him, seeking the friction he so desired. Iorveth let him grind against him for a few more moments, then pulled back and slapped Geralt again, first on his buttocks, then the part of his thighs that curved into his ass. Each time, the witcher snarled in pleasure, wiggling in his bonds but not getting free. It was one of the bondage-styles that Iorveth was fairly sure Geralt wouldn’t get out of even if he really tried, which increased the mental thrill for both of them.

Finally, Iorveth got up and went to the low table to get one of the oil vials. When he returned to the bed, he stayed standing, spreading the oil on his right hand and warming it in his fingers until they glistened. With the other, he spread Geralt’s ass. He pressed an oil-slick finger into the tight furl of muscle. Geralt breathed in sharply, shutting his eyes in pleasure. Iorveth let him adjust for a moment, gently wiggling the finger from side to side. “I forgot” he lied smoothly, pressing in a bit deeper, “that this must be the first time someone penetrated you in over a year. Isn’t that right?”

“Smug bastard” Geralt panted, throwing him a glare, rightly anticipating that Iorveth was smiling widely. “You know it is.”

“Is this how you would speak to me?” Iorveth inquired dryly, curling his finger inside Geralt’s entrance and eliciting a broken moan. He pulled out, only to press in again, digging into Geralt’s warm flesh from the inside, searching for his prize.

The witcher shook under his ministrations, muscles jumping and twitching, fingers curling into claws while Iorveth brushed over his prostrate, again and again, pretending he couldn’t find the little nub. Finally though, he tired of the deception and zeroed in on the bundle of nerves, rubbing against it, massaging it with his finger. The sounds Geralt made went straight to his own cock, and he watched in hungry delight the twitching of Geralt’s length, dripping pre-cum on the linen sheets.

“Is it?” he asked again, pushing his whole hand forward, literally spearing Geralt on his finger.

“N-no, Iorveth, forgive me” Geralt cried, hands now flexing into fists as he was helplessly pushed forward with nowhere to go. Iorveth let the pressure go, pulling his finger out completely and then adding the second one with fresh oil, some of it dripping down Geralt’s trembling thighs. The sight of the glistening liquid on scarred muscle was enough to set his belly blazing. He swallowed harshly, reminding himself of his goal for tonight. He would take Geralt. But not yet. Not for a while.

 

* * *

 

Geralt’s pants turned into incomprehensible babbling when Iorveth used both fingers to scissor him open while never letting go of his prostrate. He felt split in two, on fire, drunk, all at once. Iorveth was relentless in his pursue of Geralt’s pleasure, and Geralt could barely stand it. It had been so long. Oh, he had jerked off countless times, but to him, who had always found his pleasure with other people, and easily, it was not the same. And this feeling, this particular lighting his most sensitive spot on fire, was something he could never reproduce.

“Iorveth, please” he begged, and to his surprise, a second hand came around and touched his cock. With both hands working in the same rhythm, he spilled within seconds, his ball sack tightening, white stars filling his vision, the mattress pressing uncomfortably into his cheek forgotten. Panting, he came down from his high, only to realize that Iorveth hadn’t stopped. Instead, he felt the hand on his cock ease away towards his testicles, massaging them, while a third finger joined the other two inside him.

Geralt shivered when his prostrate was hit again, Iorveth’s nimble fingers finding all the right angles to tease him. The pleasure was almost too much, edging on painful, but when Geralt cringed forward to escape the pressure, Iorveth followed, and Geralt realized for the first time that he was at Iorveth’s mercy. _If he wanted, he could keep doing this the whole night_ , he thought, eyes glazing over. He strained harder against the ropes, pulling a low chuckle from behind him when Iorveth noticed his efforts, never stopping his ministrations. A part of him knew of course that Iorveth would stop immediately whenever he said his word, but a darker part in him wanted to ignore this truth, reveling in the knowledge that Iorveth had all the control right now, all the power, and that there was nothing Geralt could do to stop the torrent of pleasure from burning a path through his shaking body.

He was at Iorveth’s mercy.

He loved it.

He craved it.

He wanted more.

“Gag” he managed between two moans, making Iorveth halt for the first time since he had started fingering him. “Gag me.”

“Greedy” Iorveth drawled, but he did get up and returned with a ball of soft cloth in his oily hands, which he pushed into Geralt’s already open mouth, then tied it behind his head with some cord. “If you need to stop, tap your leg three times” he commanded, stroking down Geralt’s sweat-slick cheek and pushing a few lose strands of hair out of his face. “You are beautiful beyond compare, White Wolf” he added, looking down at him with a fierce light in his healthy eye. In the stark shadows that the candles threw, the empty socket of his other eye was nothing but a swath of black.

Geralt wanted to return the compliment, but the gag prevented him, sending a tingle of excitement straight to his groin. Iorveth’s mouth twitched, as if he knew what Geralt had been thinking. He returned to his place behind him, stroking his fingers leisurely down Geralt’s spine, allowing his nails to leave red marks on his skin. Geralt almost doubled over when Iorveth’s fingers entered him, the short absence having been enough to make the feeling seem new and unexpected again. He left his cock alone for now, focusing instead on his prostrate.

Three fingers entered and left him, again and again, each time brushing over and pushing against the bundle of nerves, until Geralt thought he must lose his mind any second. He remembered the last time Iorveth had done this time him, out on the night-streets of Vergen, in front of strangers, and wild desire flashed through him. For a second, he imagined Barnabas standing behind them, watching as the Iorveth took him slowly apart. He shut his eyes, willing the thoughts away, but Iorveth seemed to have picked up on his agitation and increased his pace, pumping his fingers into him in a steady rhythm that left Geralt panting and short of breath thanks to the gag. His muffled cries of pleasure filled the bedroom, and Geralt threw his inhibitions in the wind, imagining Iorveth fucking him in front of the house, in full view of all his servants, while Geralt begged for his release.

“Whatever you are thinking about” Iorveth growled, pushing in harder until all three fingers were buried to the hilt inside of him, “let’s act on it some time. Your reactions intrigue me.”

That promise gave Geralt the rest. He writhed and squirmed and panted into the gag, shaking apart under Iorveth’s fingers when the elf finally touched his cock again while circling his prostrate with no small amount of pressure from within. His seed shot onto the bed, some of it landing on his chest which was pressed close to the sheets.

“You drive me insane, Geralt” Iorveth panted behind him. He leaned his sweaty forehead against Geralt’s spine, taking deep breaths. Geralt looked back when he trusted his eyes enough to see. Iorveth had pulled his trousers down sometime between gagging Geralt and resuming his work, and his cock stood up against his belly, thick and flushed with blood.

Geralt wanted him, wanted him more than he ever remembered wanting someone else. He had just come a second time, but it didn’t matter. He needed Iorveth inside him, and he needed him there _now_.

With a muffled snarl, he pressed his backside towards Iorveth’s groin, hoping the elf would get his message. The weight from his back lifted as Iorveth looked up. Their eyes met, the distance between them seemingly shrinking into nothingness.

Iorveth never let his gaze waver while he coated his cock in copious amounts of oil and lined himself up against Geralt’s entrance. The thick head pressed against him, then slid in with a satisfying pop.

“The moment I first lay eyes on you, I was intrigued” Iorveth suddenly said, pushing in an inch. “Then you offered to help me free my brothers and sisters, and I respected you. When I thought you had betrayed me, I hated you. And then you saved my life, and I hated you even more.”

He pushed in another inch, splitting Geralt open, forcing him to submit, to give up his control. Geralt let go of his tension and was rewarded with another inch. His eyes fluttered close.

“Now, we have saved each other so many times I lost count” Iorveth continued. “You have given me a leader, a home, a country, a new purpose. You have freed me from decades of fighting and blind revenge. You have given me a chance to make a real difference and I can never repay you for that.”

Geralt struggled with his gag, wanting to say that Iorveth owed him nothing, that he had given him so much in return, that he had almost died so many times only because he had stayed with Geralt in the first place, but Iorveth pushed forward, down to the hilt, and all thoughts left his mind.

“I can only give you this” Iorveth murmured, stroking over Geralt’s back and sheathing himself deep inside him. “I will never leave your side again. I love you. I will protect you. When we return to Vergen, I plan to enjoy my life, not just endure it. We will drink wine at sunset. Make love in every room of our house. Sleep in the same bed. Wander the streets and explore the forests. I plan to know happiness. Will you indulge this dream of mine?”

Geralt had tears in his eyes. With a shudder, he tapped his leg three times.

Iorveth looked confused for a moment, then pulled out and came over to take out Geralt’s gag.

“You bloody elf” he growled, “get these ropes off me so I can kiss you.”

Iorveth laughed, but obliged him anyway. The ropes fell away, leaving Geralt bruised and sore and stiff, but he didn’t let that stop him. He grabbed Iorveth and pulled him down into the bed, throwing him flat onto the mattress, straddling him. Their mouths met in a fiery dance, tongues gliding against each other, openmouthed and frenzied. Geralt couldn’t remember where he stopped and Iorveth began. Lightning filled his head and teeth and snagged lips. Finally, they separated, spit-slick mouths panting in harmony. With a sigh, he lined Iorveth up, then let him slide into him. Iorveth closed his eyes, quivering in pleasure.

“I love you” Geralt said, leaning forward until both hands rested next to Iorveth’s head. The heat of Iorveth’s shaft inside him threatened to burn him up, but he rolled his hips and took the sensations in, gasping when the tip made contact with his already abused prostrate. “I will follow you wherever you go. There will be fighting, no matter how peaceful we’d like it to be, and we will keep saving each other’s lives, so you better get used to that.”

Iorveth looked up at him in something like wonder, a hand stretched out to touch his face. Geralt leaned into it, then sat up and sank back down, fighting to keep control of his movements when Iorveth clawed a hand into his thigh in pleasure, arching his back, dark hair spilling out around his head in a black halo.

Geralt kept going, even after he felt Iorveth’s seed fill his insides. They were not nearly done. They had a year to make up for, after all, and night had only freshly fallen.

There was time yet for confessions and tender kisses, for wicked smiles, splayed limbs and sweaty skin, and for promises of a future that was theirs to share.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody!
> 
> This is it. MLIOTY is now officially complete. I want to thank each and everyone of you, whether you left comments, kudos, or just read silently along. Your support for this fanfiction has been overwhelming and has kept my motivation strong throughout all the little blocks and setbacks that any writer knows and fears.  
> Thank you for everything.
> 
> Until next time,  
> Bloodymoonwolf


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